


Draco Malfoy's Rich, Fulfilling Fantasy Life

by twistedmiracle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Dom/sub, Don't copy to another site, Draco works in the Auror Dept, Explicit Sexual Content, Fantasizing, Figuring out consent, M/M, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual assumption/confusion leading to conversation, sexual negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-11-19 15:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18137282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedmiracle/pseuds/twistedmiracle
Summary: Draco Malfoy made it through his house arrest, scraped together the money for a reasonably adequate replacement wand, and is honestly grateful to have gotten a crappy job in the Auror Department. He shops for himself, cooks for himself, and visits with his mother once every week. He expects to live this way for the foreseeable future, his only true joy his incredibly detailed sexual fantasies, when... who comes a-knocking at his door? And why?





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This... took a really long time to write. I don't even know why. But I am very grateful to both my betas for helping me polish it up enough to finally release it upon the world. Divertazsc and Pushdragon, thank you so, so much! All remaining errors are completely my fault. 
> 
> Comments are love!
> 
> Based on comments I have received, I want to mention that I absolutely believe fantasizing about something doesn't mean you need or even necessarily want it in real life. Y'all, in my sexual fantasies I am usually Harry Potter. I do not need to be Harry Potter in real life to be happy or sexually fulfilled. Which is good, because not only am I not magical, I do not have a penis, unless you count the ones I have in silicone and glass. Fantasy is not always some sort of deep window into a person's soul, needs and most critical desires. Sometimes it's just a fun diversion.

Draco pressed his cheek to the red and gold wallpaper. There he stood, subservient, turned away from the door, waiting in impatient silence. Just before placing himself against the wall he had prepared himself with precisely the amount of lube Harry preferred – something he knew from experience and from Harry’s written instructions. Eventually a noise from the other room prompted Draco to reach back and spread open his arse cheeks. Harry had finally returned from work. Now he was ready to take Harry’s big erection, at the first moment Harry might like to fuck him with it.

Really though, he’d been preparing for Harry for the last several hours. He’d bathed assiduously, shaved away every tiny stub of pubic hair, moisturized liberally and perfumed sparingly. He had carefully pumiced off the beginning of a callus on one foot, obsessively removed split ends from his lengthening hair, and trimmed his nearly invisible blond beard down until it was a fine, masculine sandpaper on his cheeks and neck.  
He’d cleaned out his arse again and again; until not even a molecule of unpleasantness remained. The Queen could have eaten truffles from his bum.

It was a long, potion-heavy regimen, but as Draco performed it for his owner’s pleasure every day the Auror left him home alone, he’d learned to do the entire list without cerebration.

Now he heard Harry walk around the corner: the heavy boots on the cold wooden floor, the creak of the door into this small, warmer anteroom he often preferred to fuck Draco in, the swish of his thick woolen Auror cloak.

“Mm,” he heard Harry say. He thought the syllable held appreciation. He hoped so, but of course his face was turned away, in deference. “How lovely.”

Draco heard clothing being unfastened.

“Such a terrible day at work, so much adrenaline, and look, just the right place to put it all.”

Harry stroked Draco’s arse cheek with one large, warm hand.

Anticipating, Draco held his breath, awaiting Harry’s penis, his thrusts, his fuck. He was not forced to wait long. He felt Harry’s cockhead, just there, Harry crowding close, then Draco’s body was surrendering to Harry’s big cock. He exhaled, finally, feeling his day restart, his sun rise. He loved this more than anything in his life.

Harry had claimed to have a lot of pent up adrenaline, but so far he wasn’t at all interested in showing it. Instead, he’d slid his enormous cock into Draco beautifully deep, then pulled out, but only slightly. He crowded even closer to Draco, pressing Draco’s whole body into the wall. His strokes resumed, short and deep, like he was trying to burrow into Draco’s core. “Mmm,” he hummed into Draco’s ear. “I’m further in than usual, aren’t I?”

“I think so, sir,” Draco whispered.

“Does it hurt?”

“No, sir,” Draco whispered to the wall, eyes helplessly closed.

“Would you like it to?” Harry asked, but he did not wait long for an answer. Instead, he gave a dismissive laugh, a low, deep chortle. It warmed Draco’s ear and bones and soul, as Harry’s penis thrust unfailingly again and again into his body. Right where it belonged.

Draco’s erect dick rubbed against the garish red and gold wallpaper, and Draco knew he was going to come all over it again. Harry was whispering in his ear, and Draco strove to hear him, to obey him; but the blood was rushing in his ears and the breath was rushing in his lungs and _that cock_ was splitting him open again, again, again.

“Malfoy?” Potter was saying. “Malfoy? Did you hear me?”

Draco blinked, focused. Auror Potter was standing in front of Draco’s desk, a wry expression on his handsome face. “I was hoping you had my paperwork? For the class? Auror Maisuradze said she explained what we needed, right?”

“Of course, Auror Potter, Sir,” Draco said, hoping the blush he could feel burning his chest would not creep up his neck and onto his face. "I have it right here." It was hard not to blush and stammer when Potter spoke to him. He reached into the correct file inside his desk drawer and withdrew the thick sheaf of parchment he had prepared for the teaching meeting Auror Potter was about to lead.

“Merlin’s sake, Malfoy,” Potter said, smiling widely now. “How many times do I have to ask you to just call me just plain Potter? Or even Harry? I'd like that, you know? We were at Hogwarts together, man.”

He looked down at the papers, shuffled through them quickly, then grinned. “This looks great, Malfoy! I knew you were the right man for the job. He tapped the edge of Draco’s desk, then turned. “Told Bergum to hire you, knew you wouldn’t let us down,” he muttered to himself as he walked away.

Swallowing hard, Draco willed his cock to go down. He had a job to do, and he would _stop fantasizing already_ and fucking get it done. Gritting his teeth, he bent his head and willed himself to focus on the assignment Auror Robbe had handed him earlier.


	2. Two

The department had emptied out, as it generally did this late of a Friday. Nonetheless Draco remained at his desk, wanting to complete absolutely everything he could before he left for the weekend. Even still, he had very little left to do.

It had been nearly seven weeks since his first day on the job. Draco was getting accustomed to the methods the Aurors preferred, the forms which really mattered, the departments and superiors Head Auror Bergum most wanted him to butter up, or impress with the department’s efficiency, proficiency, and expertise.

Truthfully, his newfound sense of competence could not have come too soon. He’d had tremendous difficulties managing to get hired anywhere. He’d spent most of his eight months and eight days of house arrest studying potions, but an apprenticeship could not be had anywhere in Europe. Not by Draco Malfoy, anyway. Theo Nott had obtained one eventually, but he’d never taken the Dark Mark. Not to mention, his Arithmancy apprenticeship was in Moldova, poorest country in all Europe. And he wasn’t allowed to leave Moldova until his apprenticeship ended and his final thesis was written and approved. So perhaps that wouldn’t have been the way to go, either.

Blaise’s new stepfather had hired Blaise right out of Hogwarts. Blaise was now nearly done learning how to run an import/export business, and (perhaps not coincidentally) this stepfather was the longest-lived yet of all Blaise’s mother’s husbands. They were based in Dubai, though, and Draco hardly ever got to see Blaise anymore.

Pansy’s mother had married her off to some awful, ancient wizard with lots of money and even more social capital but “a dick as hard, and as appealing, as an overcooked spaghetti noodle.” Draco had given her every penny he could sacrifice and hadn’t seen her since. He missed her acerbic wit and clear-eyed cynicism, but he understood why she’d fled England. When _he_ imagined opening his legs for Eltomer Witterfroud….

So, his house arrest complete, his new, perfectly decent (if unattractive) Ukrainian wand obtained (at newly challenging cost), and every potential potions apprenticeship apparently closed to him, Draco had begun to look for work. Two things soon became clear. One, the Ministry was his only real option. No private employer would hire someone Marked. No matter it was faded to a thin grey shadow. Not even for “back of house” jobs where the public wouldn’t have to see or interact with him. Two, while the Ministry might have this “initiative” that was supposed to smooth the way for young “offenders” like Draco to get a job, every department head nonetheless had a “not in my backyard” approach. Every interview led, not to a second interview in that department, but to a job listing for some _other_ Ministry position. One “more suited to your talents, Mr Malfoy.”

February became March. Draco had thirteen short, awkward, useless interviews before he finally found himself, his stomach sinking, shaking the head Auror’s hand in greeting. Potter fidgeted on the other side of the interview room. There was no way this would go well. Potter had always hated Draco. 

But Draco had read Potter completely wrong. He had not been there to scuttle Draco’s interview, but to upend it. Draco had been offered the job that very morning, and had accepted immediately. He hadn’t worked less than a fifty hour week since. He was determined to be the best damn departmental manager possible. The best in the entire Ministry. The best in history. Harry Potter was never going to regret intervening on Draco’s behalf, not once. Not if Draco could help it.

Attempting to live up to this ridiculous (even Draco knew it, but he didn’t care), self-imposed mandate took a great deal of time. Time Draco might, conceivably, have spent on dating. But that was all right, because Draco had no chance at dating his massive crush Harry Potter, or — while he was being honest with himself — anyone else. He told himself first of all, no one wanted him as he was currently perceived: evil, Death Eater scum; and second, no one would want him as he currently _actually was_ : underemployed, overworked, underpaid, barely out of Azkaban and still (technically) Marked. It had faded like mad in the first twenty-four hours after Potter had done Riddle in, and since then it had slowly faded even further, down to a slight shadow. A shadow that, nonetheless, seemed permanent. With bona fides like _that_ , well. He might as well go ahead and work those fifty, sixty hour weeks, warm something to eat from a can or a box, and go to bed early enough to indulgently wank for an hour before he relaxed and fell asleep with a true, uninhibited smile on his face for the first time all day.

At the very least, the Aurors did seem to appreciate what he was doing for them and their department. Bergum had praised Draco twice already: first for how quickly he was learning the ropes, and second for how well he’d accomplished a specific task Bergum had apparently expected to have to rescue him from. When he had knocked on Bergum’s door to let him know the Goblins had agreed to the meeting about additional (human) security at Gringotts, and they had accepted Bergum's proposed agenda and location with only two modifications, Bergum had told Draco straight out what a good job he’d done. He’d even shaken Draco’s hand!

Eventually, finally feeling satisfied with his work and his week, Draco slipped the last form into an envelope which he marked for the attention of Auror Singh. As he sent it floating off to Singh’s work station, a shadow paused over Draco’s desk. Looking up, Draco was pleased to see Auror Potter, looking handsome as always, his face opening up with a satisfied, even greedy smile.

“Excellent,” Potter said, unbuckling his belt. “Knew you would wait for me.”

“Of course, Sir,” Draco said, kneeling on the floor next to his desk. “I never forget, no matter whose turn it is.”

“And lucky me, it’s my turn this week.” Potter pulled his cock through his opened placket. He was already thick and hard, but not yet dripping. He stepped closer and slid the head of his dick into Draco’s open mouth. “Of course,” Potter said, sighing happily, “as I’m the one who insisted Bergum hire you, it’s my turn _every other week_.” He groaned once, quietly. “ _Fuck_ but I’m glad I insisted Bergum take you on.”

“Mm,” Draco agreed, opening his mouth wider to Potter’s now completely full erection. He took hold of Potter’s arse cheek into one hand, and with his other hand, he caressed Potter’s heavy balls. Draco was hard too, of course, but his orgasm was for later. Right now he was paying Auror Potter back for getting him this job. Potter deserved all his attention.

Harry fucked slowly over Draco’s lips, looking down to watch his cock move. He stroked Draco’s fringe from his forehead to encourage eye contact. “Merlin, but aren’t you the best departmental manager we could want for,” Potter murmured as he continued to stroke deeper into Draco. The mushroom head of his cock fit most efficiently into the narrow curves of Draco’s throat. Draco’s skill in deep throating rose every week.

“And I want you to know, as much as I enjoy this,” he started to pull his cock back, “it isn’t why I wanted Bergum to hire you.” Now he slid his cock back into Draco’s mouth, stopping just before the entrance to Draco’s throat. Prevented from speaking, Draco raised an eyebrow in question.

“I’m serious!” Harry said, laughing. He pulled his cock out, slowly, sighing with pleasure as Draco’s tongue swirled lewdly around him. “This was just the only way to get all the other men to agree. Plus Bergum felt it would help you have the right attitude about all of us. You know, getting down on your knees for each and every one of us like this, once every week. Mmm. Love your mouth so much. Since you agreed, of course I take advantage of it. The other Aurors would never stop teasing me if I didn’t, and besides….”

Harry trailed off and sighed again, enjoying the way Draco caressed his balls and varied the suction on his cock. “This is the very, very best part of my fortnight.” He took Draco’s head in his hands and finally began to fuck Draco’s face, driving in until his wild black pubic hair forced Draco’s eyes closed, then pulling out again.

“I want this to last, you know,” Harry said, pushing his cockhead down into Draco’s throat and cutting off his air. “I have a goal. I want to be the slowest man in your mouth.”

Draco hummed his agreement. Harry already was. Weasley had been the fastest, rushing through his blowjob with his eyes closed and his mouth shut as though he felt guilty. Bergum had been fast, too, sighing gustily as though no one else ever sucked his cock. Singh had got slower as he came to feel more comfortable with the arrangement, but he was still twice as fast as Harry. Harry usually slowly fucked Draco’s face for as long as eight or ten minutes before he couldn’t stand the buildup any longer. Then he would sigh his frustration and start to bang away at Draco’s mouth, leaving Draco covered with his own drool and as hard as a block of musclewood inside his robes.

Draco did so enjoy giving head. He’d been shocked when they had explained this would be a requirement, but he could understand their reluctance to hire him. Certainly no one else wanted him around, or to entrust him with anything important.

Harry’s balls were starting to draw up, like he was about to come, but it hadn’t been terribly long yet, so he wasn’t surprised when Harry pulled his cock almost free of Draco’s mouth. “Just the head for a bit,” he murmured. “And leave my balls alone.”

Draco mouthed the head of Harry’s cock, bringing his other hand up to grab Harry’s firm, round arse. He knew how much Harry loved what Draco could do with his tongue, so to help Harry last, he left his tongue flat and just used his lips. _Fuck_ but he was hard under his robes.

Harry allowed Draco to caress his arse, but he was still completely in charge of the movements of his hips. He fucked his cockhead over Draco’s lips and flat tongue over and over, carefully avoiding the entrance to Draco’s throat. He grasped his own shaft with his hand, perhaps to keep Draco from doing it, but did nothing to stimulate himself. He didn’t squeeze himself or rub. He took his goal of making this blowjob last very seriously indeed.

It made Draco wonder how receptive Harry would be to offers of more opportunities to practice his self control. He could send an owl, perhaps. Or he could stop by Harry’s desk some evening after everyone else had gone home, or drop by Harry’s front door someday….

Draco’s perfect blowjob fantasy faded as he contemplated knocking on Harry’s front door. What if Harry wasn’t home? Worse, what if Harry wasn’t alone? It was hard enough to long for the same man half of magical Britain wanted when you were never, ever going to do anything about it. Doing something about it? Why, the very idea filled Draco’s guts with leaden butterflies. No, nothing would be done, no matter what he wanted. Working near Potter was going to have to be enough.

Sighing, Draco looked down at his straining trousers. That’s what he got for fantasizing at work again. He’d have to Floo home like this. He certainly wasn’t going to wank off in the loo. Not when his vibrator, dildo collection, comfy bed, and (best of all) the ability to strip off all these cheap, itchy work clothes awaited him in his tiny little London flat. At least he really was done for the week. He could stay up half the night masturbating, if he wanted.

Walking slowly, his robes fastened cautiously up to the neck over his shirt and trousers, Draco made his way through the now quiet building, headed for the closest Floo. Despite his occasionally churlish thoughts, he really was grateful for this job.

There was no queue at this hour, and Draco flooed home quickly. Home to his building’s dingy beige lobby, that is. Draco couldn’t afford a flat with floo access included. Though honestly, he wasn’t sure he would actually want it, considering the security risk involved.

Draco nodded silently at Mrs Kishar, knitting near the front window as she so often did. Since her husband had died four months before, she had once admitted to him, her one bedroom flat felt far too large and lonely, and she enjoyed spending time in the lobby now, making baby things to donate to St Mungo’s, watching the passers-by, and occasionally chatting with other residents of their block of flats. Mrs Kishar was sweet but a little dull, so Draco didn’t often join her in the front window. He was also fairly sure she had not yet figured out he was a Malfoy, and he wasn’t looking forward to that changing. Several residents of their building no longer so much as nodded politely to him when he joined them in the lift.

Sighing, Draco got in the small, loud lift, relieved to see it was empty. He pushed the button for the 4th floor and, leaning against the wall, closed his eyes as the lift doors rattled slowly closed. He was so tired. It would be good to heat up some macaroni and cheese from a box and go to bed. Maybe he would splurge tonight; add in a can of tuna fish, or some frozen peas. It was Friday, he realized. He should add both. His ensuing smile was wry.

He did, honestly, want to find a reasonable way to show Harry his gratitude. He had, of course, shaken the man’s hand and thanked him after he’d been offered the job, and he’d written him a formal thank you letter after his first day, but that didn’t seem adequate, really. Not like the blowjob he longed to offer but didn’t have the courage to speak of under any imaginable circumstances. Still, someday he’d thank Harry properly….


	3. Three

Draco waited as discreetly as possible, considering he was at least six inches taller than most wizards who were not his father, and he was a convicted Death Eater in the handsome anteroom of the Minister for Magic’s office.

The Minister’s secretary had announced his arrival, but the Minister had not called him in. Instead, he was behind the slightly ajar door, arguing with his Chief of Staff about whether or not Draco’s court-ordered appearance in his office was truly necessary.

“You know what the Wizengamot said,” Granger harangued, but Draco knew this was the wrong tactic from her. He wished he could waltz in there and explain for himself. Potter didn’t need to hear about all the waiting women, or how pleasant this experience could be if he would only relax and allow it. From Granger and her ilk, Potter needed a firm hand combined with a reminder of how good the outcome would be for everyone else. Obedience plus saving the day. Frankly, he was quite surprised Granger didn’t understand this far better than he did.

Finally, though, while Draco had ceased to pay attention to her, Granger had found the magic words that would usher him in and her out of Minister Potter’s large, handsome, deeply private office.

“The better you do at this,” Granger said pointedly as she pushed him toward the door, “the less time you’ll spend cooling your heels in this anteroom on Monday.”

Draco would have liked to snap a response at her, but he was too smart to indulge in such immaturity. Instead, eyes down and mouth shut, he entered Potter’s office and slipped around the door, pressing it closed with his backside. Then he went to his knees and shuffled over to Potter, who was turned away, staring out the magical window.

The view there was quaint and pastoral: unrealistically clean white sheep were arranged on a perfect sweep of green hillside. A pristine brown barn sat squat and neat behind a charming, red brick farmhouse.

Draco suspected there wasn’t a farm anything like it in the three kingdoms, but said nothing about it. He was too smart to indulge in that immaturity, either. Instead of criticizing Potter’s view, he sought to replace it.

“Sir?” he said, from the floor near Potter’s feet.

“Oh, Draco,” Potter said, and he walked away to sit in his large, leather chair.

“Would you like to fuck me, or would you prefer a blowjob to start?”

“I am so uncomfortable,” Potter answered.

“Me, too,” Draco said cannily. He left his gaze on the carpet.

“Of course you are. Could anyone be comfortable with this?” Yes, that was the tone of voice Draco had been aiming to hear. Potter sounded a bit hopeful now, along with the tinge of disgust and despair.

“Yes, Minister,” Draco said, and he faked a tiny sigh. “This isn’t how I wanted our first date to go at all.”

“Wait, what? Can you explain?” Potter said, and now the hope was coloring only confusion.

“I always hoped we would run into each other somewhere,” Draco said, producing another wistful sigh. “Somewhere like... a gay bar. A Muggle one, perhaps? And you would see me dancing and… I hoped you would want me….”

“Hm,” Potter said. “Instead, you’ve been sentenced to extract my sperm and magically redistribute it to a half dozen women who I’ll be impregnating. Twice a week, no less.” He sounded disgusted again. “I agree, Malfoy, your scenario is a hell of a lot more sexually exciting than what the damn Wizengamot came up with.”

“Maybe….” Draco looked up at Potter through his lashes. “Maybe we could… pretend?”

“Turn this office into a disco?” Potter was finally smiling, if wryly.

“You know the Wizengamot’s plan has merit, sir. Our world is depopulated from the war, fertility is suffering, so many young men are dead, and no one has the potential to father strong witches and wizards like you. Plus, once you have fathered enough healthy babies, the court says I can go free. Not to mention, er….” Draco blushed and blinked.

Potter waited through a long moment, but eventually he gave in. “Not to mention, what, Malfoy?”

“I want you,” Draco said quietly, as though he was embarrassed. A long pause stretched out, silent, and Draco wondered if he needed to lay it on even thicker, but then the lights began to dim, and he heard Potter enunciating privacy spells in between adding flashing lights and thumping dance music.

Draco grinned at the floor, waiting patiently now. It wasn’t long before he saw Potter’s feet approach. No longer clad in the long, formal robes of a Minister, Potter now wore new black trainers and tight black denims. He extended a hand to Draco, who took it and rose gracefully to his feet. “Let’s get you dressed in something more appropriate to this disco,” Potter murmured, and when he waved his wand, Draco shivered at the things Potter to chose to attire him in.

“Good?” Potter asked, his voice low and dark. Draco nodded. He didn’t know exactly what he looked like, but he was wearing tight, white trousers and a shiny, silvery shirt that seemed more like shreds than clothing. Yet, it did not come off. He moved tentatively to the music Potter had chosen, and Potter grinned widely at him. One wall of the office had become a large mirror, and they both faced it. Draco blushed to see how Potter had lined his grey eyes with kohl and accentuated his sharp cheekbones with glitter. Potter, on the other hand, wore no makeup at all, and his clothes were all quite simple and black. And tight. Extremely tight.

Potter pushed himself along Draco’s back, and they swayed to the music together, but then Potter pulled away, frowning. “A real club,” he said, “would be full of other men.” Waving his hands, he filled the room with the images of men, all dancing, in a variety of clothing, heights and skin colors. “Better,” Potter murmured as he pressed himself up against Draco again.

“Much better,” Draco agreed, and he bent to accept the press of Potter’s erection in the crack of his arse. Potter pushed into Draco’s offering, curling his hands around to stroke Draco’s own cock through the tight, white trousers.

“You do want me,” Potter murmured at him, somehow audible over the thumping backbeat. He was blatantly running a hand up and down Draco’s length now.

“Please,” Draco managed, and he thought he could not possibly have been heard, but Potter nonetheless was pulling his trousers and pants down, bending him over, putting Draco’s hands on the enormous mirror, and sliding his cock into his already prepared arsehole in one, slick, fast shove.

“You feel good,” Potter grunted at him as he fucked.

 _Thank Merlin_ , Draco thought but did not say. Potter’s cock felt huge, rock solid and unyielding. Draco’s body was forced to cede to him, instead. Potter filled Draco over and over as Draco fogged the mirror and looked into it to see every man in the club was watching him get plundered, ravaged, consumed. Relished.

“Hah,” Draco thought at them. “Look all you like. I’m the one who gets this mighty reaming, not you.”

Draco’s come sprayed all over the mirror as he gloated.

Sweating, spunk-covered, grinning vacantly into his private, dark sanctuary, Draco pulled the vibrator from his arse and dropped it by feel into the box by his bed. He’d clean it later, when he wasn’t on the verge of sleep.

Curling around his pillows and drifting into dreams, Draco laughed at himself gently. The very _idea_ of him underneath Potter. Really. The man was truly just so masculine that Draco could imagine him impregnating multiple women at once. He really was so powerful Draco could easily picture him as Minister for Magic in his twenties. He really was so moral he wouldn’t just gleefully fuck the gift of a whore, but would have to be convinced the other person honestly wanted him. No wonder Draco’s fantasies were getting more and more far-fetched.

Exhausted from the spectacular wank session and a long week at the office, Draco slept beautifully all night. Though they slipped away like sand when he tried to recall them, his dreams had obviously been delicious. The languid, satisfied feeling they left through his limbs was enough proof of that. The spunk all over the sheets was just extra. Draco grinned as he stripped and remade his bed with his other set of sheets. Then he headed to take a very long, hot shower.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch. 4, look! It is the knock we have been waiting for!

While Draco didn’t mind his job at all, and sometimes even felt a real sense of accomplishment from it, he didn’t really _like_ it, as such. Someone with his OWLS and NEWTS, not to mention background, language skills, and magical strength, should be an Auror (or a Healer or a Potions Master, etc.) not an office manager. But it was a truth he was forced to live with. He’d been on the wrong side of a terrible war, and high marks and brilliant test scores were nothing against that. So a lonely, underpaid office manager he was, and would be for the foreseeable future.

With his 8-7 office manager schedule in mind, Draco reserved Sundays for all the less pleasant tasks of a life without servants or house-elves: grocery shopping, laundry, house cleaning etc; because on Sundays he always enjoyed eating dinner with Mother and she liked to hear about his adventures with adulthood. This easily elevated Saturday up to be Draco’s favourite day of every week. He was free to relax, wander Muggle London, experiment with potions, write letters to friends, or any other sort of leisure he liked. He almost always did at least a little experimenting with his potions work.

Today he had planned to continue a rather grandiose brewing experiment he had been working on for a few months. He might not have a chance at obtaining an apprenticeship, and he was resigned no one would hire him to brew potions (let alone experiment with them). But Draco hoped, were he able to _invent_ something particularly useful, he might have a chance at selling it. So, when he had a spare moment here and there (often while he ate lunch), he would dream up things to try. And, on Saturdays, he would usually brew.

Today, he had some optimism for yet another go at a new, considerably safer, version of Dreamless Sleep. The original potion had its place, but could only be used sparingly. As Muggles had discovered, people actually needed to dream. Without dreams, a person would quickly become quite mentally disturbed. They could even react by _dreaming whilst awake_. A fairly terrifying prospect, as far as Draco was concerned. So Draco had been working on a version that not only wasn’t addictive, not only contained none of the most common allergens, but wasn’t dream _less_ sleep at all. Draco’s version, should it ever work, prevented only nightmares, and encouraged the patient through all the stages of normal sleep.

Shortly after his house arrest had ended he’d been dismayed, and then thrilled, to discover Muggle doctors already had a drug that did this. Prazosin, they called it. It didn’t work on magical people (or it didn’t work on Draco, anyway) but Draco was reasonably sure he could modify it just enough to keep its anti-nightmare properties while making it effective for witches and wizards. The Muggle version was even safe for children!  
Muggle libraries were impressive places, once you got the courage to enter, and to ask a librarian for assistance.

Draco couldn’t afford a permanent laboratory setup in his little flat, but he was a very careful brewer and he didn’t bother much with cooking, so he was willing to share his kitchen with his passion. He assiduously cleaned up his breakfast and got to work laying out everything he needed to experiment with Prazosin again. He’d finished separating out all ten of the inactive ingredients last month. He was pretty sure he’d determined just last Saturday which part of the molecular structure of the Prazosin hydrochloride was blocking its efficacy for magical patients. Now he needed to find a substitute. He had done a lot of applicable research on this before he had discovered Prazosin existed, so he was hopeful he might be close to a breakthrough already.

He’d had a promising start with vampire bat blood, so Draco decided to start there. He had already taken a week to slowly infuse thirty grams of Prazosin hydrochloride with it, so he set up simultaneous experiments for the changed substance to interact with his blood, his saliva, his stomach acid, and a small amount of distilled liquid magic he’d shelled out entirely too much cash for at a dodgy little shop just off Diagon. This took a solid hour, because Draco was nothing if not precise. When you were as skint as he, you had to be, as he often reflected. He simply couldn’t afford to waste a blessed drop of anything.

But now he had a good forty-five minutes before he would have cause to so much as check a clock, and he knew just how he wanted to spend it. He spelled barriers between his experiments and the rest of the kitchen, to prevent contamination via dust or anything else, and headed for his bedroom. Once there, he looked down at his clean, neatly made bed and frowned. He only had two sets of sheets. These, and the filthy ones he’d stripped off this morning. Smiling at his ingenuity, he grabbed an old, soft blanket from the top shelf of his cupboard and spelled it to adhere tightly to the top of his other bedclothes. There. Even if he made a mess, he could just wash his extra blanket, not everything. He stripped to the skin, pulled out lube and a middling width dildo and lay down to wallow in his imagination once more.

“Your Majesty,” said the enormous, heavily armoured guard who had led Draco, clad in nothing but a fitted silk shift and soft gold cloth slippers, to this inner chamber.

“Yes?” said the new, young King. He sounded preoccupied, and Draco chanced a glance up from his feet to see.

The young King’s beauty nearly stole Draco’s false outer calm. His skin was a warm brown, with golden undertones. His hair was a wild tangle of deep, black curls and twists. His eyes were as green and luminescent as emeralds.

And they were staring straight at him.

“Sire,” Draco choked out, horrified.

“The tribute from Lord Lucius,” the guard mumbled. “It’s his, er, his son, your Majesty. He sent his _son_ for you to, er….”

The King stood, and Draco wanted to swoon at the breadth of his shoulders, his sturdy build, the handsome simplicity of his clothes. He wore expensive fabric, but with little decoration: only one sword, not so much as a single medal. His black leather boots were tall, heavy, nearly utilitarian. They did not look new. Draco wondered how often this sovereign still went out to practice sword and wand work with his guards and troops. Draco’s father had stopped bothering with exercises such as those when Draco had been a boy of ten. He’d had Draco do it instead, though that certainly wasn’t how he chose to explain it.

“He sent his son, Jonathan? How… unusual.”

This King addressed _servants_ by their _first names_.

“Yes, Sire,” the servant, obviously named Jonathan, agreed. “I am to tell you when the carriage arrived, the, er, tribute was thoroughly bathed in soaps and then in precious oils. All of his body hair has been removed, save for the stuff that grows from his scalp. The leg and arm hair and such can return naturally or be magicked away permanently, whatever you prefer. He was dressed in what you see here, it came with him. He brought only a few outfits, Sire, all basically like this. He also brought trunks full of galleons, jewels, magical items and trinkets. Those have been brought to your Treasurer.”

The King walked closer, and Draco finally found the fear needed to drop his eyes back to the floor. The King’s boots approached. He wore battle breeches, but the wool looked light and fine, and as black as the King’s deliciously wild hair.

“The letter, Sire,” the guard said, and handed over a parchment Draco had read over so many times during the long journey that he’d memorized it.

> * * *
> 
> My Lord, King Harry, sovereign of the realm, defeater of Voldemort, gracious bestower of unearned forgiveness;
> 
> As you already well know, I, your humble servant Lord Lucius of Malfoy, Wiltshire, agreed in full to the terms you set for my surrender. I reflected long and carefully upon your request for a tribute, my Lord, and eventually determined — as the fallen foe who had stood longest at Voldemort’s foul right hand — my tribute should offer the largest sacrifice, the greatest show of surrender, and the strongest pledge of trusted allegiance. Thus, my son Draco Abraxas stands before you. I bestow his freedom, his person, and his fortune upon you, for the rest of his days and yours.
> 
> My wife, the Lady Narcissa, is already with child so my lands will have an heir to serve you and your line as a Lord is meant to serve his King. Draco Abraxas, however, is intended to serve my King on any level you wish, no matter how personal. Draco has trained under a talented Potions Master. He is fluent in French, German and Latin. His ability for Charms is impressive. He has a lovely singing voice, and plays beautifully both the viola and the harpsichord.
> 
> I have also taken the liberty of having two of my most trustworthy guards train him in the art of performing fellatio. His arse, however, remains tight and virginal for your pleasure. I checked this carefully and then spelled the protections myself, so I feel confident he remains pristine for you, even after his long journey from Malfoy Manor.
> 
> I hope you will find my son’s mind and body become a source of benefit, pleasure, and reassurance. As long as he lives in my Lord’s castle, and perhaps even sleeps occasionally in my Lord’s bed, I will be clearly and logically constrained by mind, heart, soul and magic, from opposing my Lord King. As long as Draco lives, I will remain your obedient servant and will obey your orders without hesitation.
> 
> With humility and hope,  
>  Your dutiful servant, Lord Lucius of Malfoy, Wiltshire
> 
> * * *
> 
>  

“Looks like your father sold you out, mate,” the King barked at Draco.

“Sire,” Draco said, overcome.

“Guard, dismissed,” the King said. Jonathan bowed once, clicked his heels and slipped away swiftly. Draco got the impression he didn’t want to be anywhere near the two of them any longer.

“So, trained cocksucker, eh?”

The King was intimidating as hell, but beautiful. Draco nodded his head. “Yes, your Majesty,” he managed through dry lips and a dryer throat.

“You any good? What a foolish question. Like I can trust you to know. Ever suck your own cock?”

Draco, shocked, shook his head once, _no_.

“Then I’ll be testing your father’s assertions the old fashioned way,” the King said, and he moved to stand directly in front of Draco. “Unfasten my breeches, get me hard, then please me with your mouth. Your goal is to swallow my entire release.”

The King gave these orders in a voice filled with confidence and… amusement?

Getting down on bare knees, Draco moved to obey with shaking hands and a filling cock.

The King noticed.

He picked up one boot and… nudged… at Draco’s erection.

Draco wanted to swoon, or shriek, but instead he reached out to unfasten the King’s breeches, as demanded.

The breeches were straightforward and the King’s erection was more than Draco had dared hope for. Thick, uncut, straighter than Draco’s first wand and as flushed with unbroken color as the finest Bloodwood. More than long enough to tickle the entrance to Draco’s throat.

Draco was going to enjoy serving this cock.

“Expose yourself, boy,” his King demanded, and Draco pulled his garment up and over his dick, already hard enough to hold the fabric up and away, so that his shame could be observed.

“Nice,” the King said, and Draco could not stop himself from jerking his head just upward, enough to see the look on the King’s handsome face.

He looked… interested. “You like what you see?” he asked, and Draco integrated this into his mind. Did the King… care? What he thought? It seemed that he did. He nodded and was thrilled to see the King smile.

“What does the King like?” Draco dared ask.

“Let’s find out,” King Harry said, and Draco took the hint and wrapped one hand around the King’s shaft, wrapped the other around the King’s balls, and took the already exposed head of the King’s uncircumcised cock into his wet mouth. The taste was clean skin, a hint of sweat, a touch of bitterness in the precome already beading at the tip. He started with a firm suck, listening for the other man’s reaction, which was immediate and vocal, if not loud.

“Good,” his King praised. He put a hand into Draco’s hair and scratched through the blond strands once, making a shiver run down Draco’s spine. “But get that hand wet. I want you to work me with your hand while you suck hard and caress me with your tongue.”

Draco licked his hand, trying to coat it with saliva, but it dried not long after he’d pumped the King’s foreskin up and back a few times. Draco worried about having to pull his hand and mouth away over and over, but the King waved the wand he held in the hand not caressing Draco’s hair, and painted Draco’s hand with a pleasant smelling, viscous goo.

Draco grabbed the King’s cock again to find this stuff did not dry, did not drip, and did not bother his mouth when it got on his lips. Father’s “two most trustworthy guards” had never thought of anything half so clever. Nor had either of their dicks been nearly as handsome.

Now that Draco no longer had to worry about keeping his hand lubricated, he concentrated on what he could do with his mouth that would get praise.

The King liked when Draco varied the pressure in his mouth.

The King liked when Draco coordinated his mouth and hand to simulate a slow fuck. He also liked it when Draco sped up.

The King liked it when Draco tried to hum around his dick.

Surprisingly, the King liked the barest hint of teeth.

“Mm,” the King said, cupping the back of Draco’s skull in both hands in order to take charge and actively fuck Draco’s face, “I am going to love taking your virgin arse. Look at that erection. Listen to those moans. And I love the way your mouth just drips for me. You want me, don’t you? You love this. All you want is my come. You’re going to be my favourite whore, because you are going to love having my cock inside you.”

“My Lord King,” Draco tried to say, but there was a cock fucking his mouth, tongue, throat, and his words came out as a loud, wanton moan of lust.

Harry came copiously down Draco’s throat and Draco came equally all over his belly, coming back to himself in his bed.

He didn’t usually indulge so fully when the sun was up, but — checking the time — he saw that he had not been wrong about having the time for a thorough wank. He went languidly through the motions of cleaning his skin and his dildo. He stripped the extra blanket off the bed and put it in the laundry hamper. He put his toys away and stretched luxuriously, then dressed.

He felt fantastic.

He returned to his potions work just as the vampire bat blood experiments began to show disappointing results. He would have to eliminate it as an option, he realized, when he grasped that the noise he’d not really been paying adequate attention to was someone knocking on his front door.

Sighing, Draco removed a few layers of magical protection from his person after throwing a casual stasis spell over his work. He wasn’t late on his rent, but it was probably his landlord anyway. Mr O’Sullivan liked to stop by fairly frequently. Usually he was warning Draco about some work he was going to do on the building: dismantle and fix the lift, redo the plumbing on Draco’s floor, things of that nature. Sometimes, however, O’Sullivan just stopped by on far flimsier excuses. Draco had the impression O’Sullivan might think it his duty to check up on the Death Eater. Nonetheless, he tried to be polite. The problem was, he didn’t enjoy the older man’s company. He wasn’t best pleased to answer his door right now. He was busy. But, Mum had taught him proper manners so he tried to wipe all traces of scowling from his face before he pulled the door open.

“Yes, Mr O’Sullivan?” he asked. “Can I help….”

It wasn’t O’Sullivan. Instead, for some unknowable reason, Harry Potter was standing in Draco’s doorway. A little bakery box dangled from his wrist by a string. He held a steaming cardboard Costa Coffee cup in each hand. “I know I’m unannounced,” Potter said, looking… sheepish? “But I brought nibbles?”

Draco stared at him, too astonished to respond.


	5. Five

“Please do come in,” Draco said, after a long, jittery pause.

“Thank you,” Potter said. He toed off his trainers by the door.

“You don’t have to do that,” Draco said, still a bit poleaxed.

“Oh,” Potter said, looking at his socked feet. “Habit. Do you mind?”

“Er, no!” Draco said, eager to put his alarming guest at ease.

“Well, okay then,” Potter said, and smiled so kindly Draco felt something significant inside him begin to fragment. “Can I put these down? I brought a coffee and a tea, because I didn’t know what you would want. I like both. Do you have milk? I brought sugar packets.”

Draco stared at Potter for another long, confused heartbeat before motioning him toward the tiny kitchen. “I have milk, and tea sounds lovely. No sugar necessary.”

Potter placed the cups on the table and opened them. “No sugar, eh?” he said. “I’m impressed. I can’t drink coffee without it, though.”

The silly plastic lids sitting upside down on Draco’s kitchen table looked simultaneously like possibilities and malformations. Draco stared at them. He felt distressingly blank. He smelled coffee. He was not prepared for this.

Potter put the box on the table and opened it, too. It held two enormous, oversized muffins; one dotted with blueberries, the other cranberries. Both sparkled with fat sugar crystals. “Were you brewing potions?” he asked in a polite tone. “I should have owled ahead. I just….”

Draco waited, but Potter stayed quiet. He wondered how Potter might have intended to finish the sentence, but didn’t ask. Instead he pulled his creamer and sugar bowl from the cupboard. Happily his spells had held. The cream was chilled and smelled perfect. He turned to take two teaspoons from his silverware drawer.

“Do you not have a refrigerator, then?” Harry asked him in a polite, curious tone.

“Since I don’t know what that is, I’m reasonably sure I don’t,” Draco answered as he put down the spoons. He very much hoped he didn’t sound snide.

“Oh!” Harry said. He looked surprised. “Muggle thing. It’s kind of like a big metal box with a front door. Keeps food cold. Maybe you’d like to come over sometime and see mine? My kitchen has a lot of Muggle appliances. I find them really handy, to be honest. I can go away on assignment for a few days and not worry that all my spells will fail with me not looking over them, you know?”

Nodding as though he agreed with Harry, as though he understood Harry, as though he was calm and collected about Harry standing in his kitchen – inviting him to visit _Harry’s_ kitchen – Draco poured some cold milk into the tea for something to do. Then he stared at the sugary muffins instead of looking into Harry’s face.

He wasn’t hungry, but the muffins looked sweet and fruity and delicious and he rather wanted that blueberry one, despite his earlier toast and egg. Not to mention, they were a gift. From _Harry_. He also simply had no idea what to say to a description of Harry’s kitchen coupled with a sudden suggestion (offer?) that he come _see it himself_. He wanted to pounce on Harry’s invitation, and he wanted to calmly reach out and take the blueberry muffin, but he wanted to hide and hyperventilate in a cupboard almost as much.

He’d just been eliminating potential magic-boosting ingredients, and now this? It was a lot to take in.

Harry stood there awkwardly for a long moment, while Draco did the same. The silence stretched between them like taffy, and Draco willed himself to come up with a sensible, intelligent, polite way to ask for the damn blueberry muffin. Or a kiss. No, scratch that, that was insane. Just the muffin. He just wanted the muffin.

What was Harry doing in his kitchen?

What might be the very worst problem was that Draco was on the verge of just blurting that question into Harry’s face. Because he was so ill-equipped to deal with this moment that his manners were failing him and he was still just standing and staring at that damn blueberry muffin.

Trying not to visibly shake himself free from his numbness, Draco managed, finally, to turn and reach into the cabinet and take out two small plates. “Which muffin did you want?” he asked before he turned back. He was too close to revealing his honest feelings to speak while facing Harry. Not even to ask about the muffins.

“Shall we cut them in half and share both?” Harry said. Draco put the plates on the table and watched Harry use his wand to carefully split both muffins.

“Sure,” Draco said, grateful for an equitable offer that he had not had to invent. He gestured toward the chair Harry was standing behind. “Would you like to have a seat?”

They each sat, situated themselves, stirred their drinks and tried a bite of muffin. Draco couldn’t help notice that Harry picked up a blueberry half first, as well.

“Should have bought two blueberry muffins, looks like,” Harry said as they both raised muffin halves to their mouths.

Draco wanted to demur. Harry shouldn’t feel he’d made a mistake! But his mouth was already full and he couldn’t think of a response anyway.

“Next time, I will,” Harry said, and promptly turned bright red about the ears.

Draco stared at him. Next time? He sipped his tea, which was still a bit too hot, and deliberately cast his mind back to his early childhood to find a lesson in what to do next. “How is the weather today?” he finally asked. “I’ve not been out yet. Did you walk here at all?”

Harry had, indeed, walked. Blushing red, he nonetheless calmly discussed the weather, which was blustery, wet, and chilly, especially for mid-May. As they ate their muffins, Draco struggled to believe that Harry Potter really was in his tiny kitchen – instead of in some bizarre, truncated fantasy he’d conjured in lieu of working on potions.

Having exhausted the weather as a topic, and having no mutual friends to ask about, Draco found himself unable to further postpone the inevitable. He steeled himself, sipped the last of his tea to discreetly clear crumbs from his teeth, and forced out the words.

“To what, then, do I owe the pleasure of your lovely company this fine morning?” Draco knew his smile looked fake and his voice was surely strained, but he did not expect Harry to panic.

“Oh, well, you know!” Harry said. He waved both arms outward and promptly spilled his coffee. “Oh fuck!” Harry swore, and jumped up, watching helplessly as the last of his coffee poured all over the table and over onto the floor. “Shit, have you a rag? A tea towel?”

Draco stared as the last of the coffee dribbled from Harry’s cup. He stood to better see the mess and then waved his Ukrainian wand and muttered spells, clearing up the coffee bit by bit.

“Oh right, magic,” Harry said, and his ears turned – as if that was possible – an even brighter red. He took out his wand to help, though, and soon the wet mess was gone.

“You, er, still forget?” Draco asked, a bit astonished. How odd it must be, to live in two worlds at once. He wondered if he should sit again, but Harry was still standing.

“Yeah,” Harry said, and cleaned off his jeans and trainer himself. “I should probably go.”

Draco whipped up his head, unable to hide his dismay. “You just got here,” he said, immediately wishing he could Accio the words back.

“I’m in the way,” Harry said, “I’m making a huge mess….”

“But why are you even here?” Draco said, needing to know even though it was the rudest thing he’d said in years. “I mean,” he wondered how to backtrack, “should I expect you again? I could have been prepared….”

“You shouldn’t have to prepare,” Harry said, looking horrified, “I couldn’t be a _burden_ , I meant to be – I mean – I wanted – and, that is – that’s why I brought the muffins!”

“It was delicious,” Draco said, glad to have something positive to say.

Harry’s eyes softened. “I’m really glad. You should eat both of them. What’s left, I mean.”

Draco peered at the bakery box. “It’s full of coffee,” he said, sadly. He’d been looking forward to trying the cranberry one, he realized.

Harry looked down and saw that the box, and the cranberry muffin halves inside it, had indeed soaked up rather a lot of coffee. He frowned, and they both stood there for a long moment, saying nothing, staring awkwardly at what was left of the mess. Sighing quietly, Harry waved his wand and the muffins were gone, the box was gone, the empty cups were gone. He waved it again and the dishes were clean, and floating up into their rightful spots in Draco’s cupboards. Draco watched the creamer and sugar bowl replace themselves in his cabinet and wondered how Harry knew where everything belonged. “I have to make it up to you,” Harry declared after the clutter had been eliminated. “Let me take you out to lunch?”

It was apparently Draco’s turn to panic. “What?” he said, and backed away from the table without intending to. “No, I couldn’t ask you to do that. The muffins were a gift!” He waved his hands about before he noticed what he was doing and shoved them in his pockets.

“Nonetheless,’ Harry said, looking very pleased. “You must allow me to make this up to you! Are you free… er,” he checked his watch. “Now?”  
Utterly against his will, Draco blanched. _Harry Potter_ , he realized, was apparently, probably, most likely, asking him to _go out on a date_. With him. With Harry Potter. On a date. Probably. Even though that was clearly madness. He wasn’t even hungry!

Draco took another sudden step backwards, smacking his arse against the worktop. He ran his hands through his hair. He decided to say yes.

“I was just, er, brewing…,” some moronic part of him was apparently saying instead.

“I _knew_ I interrupted you,” Harry said. He sounded sad. Draco had made Harry sad. He hadn’t even said no, and Harry was sad?

“In two hours!” Draco said, triumphantly. A solution! He’d come up with a solution. Harry smiled (he smiled!), picked up his trainers and agreed to return in two hours. Then Draco was saying goodbye and “see you soon” and closing the door. His _solution_ involved going out on a date. With Harry Potter. In two hours. What the fuck was the matter with him?

Leaning against the closed door, Draco took a few long, slow, deep breaths. Raising his head, he surveyed his modest little flat. His kitchen table was spotless, nothing out of place. No cardboard cups remained, and his creamer and sugar were clearly away where they belonged, because he couldn’t see them. The floor was spotless, the room smelled of nothing at all.

Draco stopped panicking. What a bizarre fantasy that had been! Harry hadn’t so much as touched him. Normally, when Draco fantasized about Harry, there was a great deal more sex and a great deal less awkward miscommunication. Still, Draco mused, stepping in to look more closely at his spotless kitchen table, it had obviously been a fantasy. No matter how real or how awkward it had felt, surely there was no way that Harry freaking Potter had shown up at Draco’s door with muffins, tea and coffee, lunacy and insecurities. Right?

He ran a hand over the table. Immaculate. Not a single muffin crumb, not one drop of coffee, not even a grain of sugar. _Fantasy_ , he told himself firmly. “You had a vivid fantasy,” he told himself out loud. Of course he had. He smiled in relief. Telling himself it was ridiculous to think otherwise, he still stepped to his front door, opened it, and checked the hallway. It was empty. Of course it was. Vivid, odd, fantasy.

Draco meandered toward his brewing and took the stasis spells off. Everything seemed to be exactly as he had left it, and he began to move things back into place, but stopped – distracted – as he continued to consider the fantasy he’d just had. Why hadn’t he imagined Harry demanding sex? Unconsciously, Draco stroked at his prick through his clothing. He did so enjoy those fantasies where Harry confidently, casually demanded his submission. Why wouldn’t he have pushed the scenario in that direction? Granted, having Harry come to his very front door was a great start, but (he was rubbing harder at his dick now, and getting fully hard as he considered how his fantasy should have gone) a decent choice would have had Harry offering a hot drink and then wanting a blowjob while Draco’s mouth was still burning hot. Or perhaps he should have imagined that eating Harry’s muffin would have condemned Draco, Persephone-style, to a certain amount of time speared on the prongs of Harry’s staff.

Sighing, Draco surveyed his potions research. Despite his elaborate royal fantasy of less than an hour before, he was far too turned on to work right now. He threw another casual stasis spell at the whole worktop and turned toward his bedroom. He needed another thorough wank. Perhaps that bizarre fantasy of an insecure Harry was effective, after all.

Stripping down to nothing, Draco pulled that extra blanket from the hamper and put it back on his bed — careful to put the same, dirty side up. Then he picked up his very best dildo and slicked the ribbed, tempered glass slowly and generously with his wand. He’d come so recently, it was worth the extra care this dildo required. Then he lay down in the center of his large bed and started to work the glass shaft into his body. Stroking his cock as he pressed the dildo in and pulled it out, Draco closed his eyes and pictured Harry over him. “Mmm…” he hummed, trying to choose what Harry should say. Maybe “Open for my cock, Draco. I need to come, and your arse is just the right place to shove my dick, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my King…” Draco murmured aloud as the dildo slipped in up to the third heavy glass rib.

“That’s right,” imaginary Harry said in a self-assured, demanding voice that was completely unlike the imaginary Harry who brought muffins to Draco’s kitchen. “I’m the King, and you’re my convenient, tight little fuck-hole.”

“Yes, your Majesty!” Draco agreed happily, shoving the dildo in farther and feeling pre-come spurt generously from his slit in response. “I love pleasing your massive royal dick.”

“Good,” Harry said, as the dildo slipped in up to its wide glass base. “Not that it really matters, you know. I own your little white arse, and I’ll fuck you whenever I want no matter how you feel about it.”

“Of course, Sire,” Draco whispered to the air in his bedroom as he worked the dildo in and out as quickly as he could stand. He spread his legs farther and jerked hard at his cockhead. His pre-come was flowing fast now, and he spread it around and around with every twist of his wrist. “I’m such a _lucky_ whore.”

“Mm, yes,” King Harry declared with assurance. “You really are. You get to suck up my come every day. In your mouth, in your arse….” Harry twisted his hips. Draco swiveled the dildo to make it feel more real. A glass rib pressed hard against his prostate and he gasped and arched his back. That was good. Draco did it again, then a third time. Then he conjured a handful of lube, adjusted his grip on his dildo, spread the lube all over his cock, and wanked determinedly for a few more delightful tugs until he came all over his belly.

Draco woke up a short time later, judging by the height of the sun in the sky. Sighing with pleasure and regret, he pulled the dildo from his arse. That had been satisfying, but now his extra blanket was completely disgusting, and he needed a shower. He cast a short series of spells to sterilize his dildo and return it to its box under the bed. He pulled the extra blanket off, again, and wrinkled his nose at it. No time for laundry right now, if he was going to get anything else done today. Shoving the blanket to the bottom of the hamper, he made do with a few spells and soon his bed at least looked pristine and freshly neatened.

Draco took an unusually quick shower, as – while he usually liked showering – today doing it by himself filled him with an inexplicable loneliness. ( _What the hell was that_ , he wondered. _I always shower alone!_ ) Then, nude and clean and still just the slightest bit damp, he stood in his bedroom wondering what the hell to wear. 

Imaginary, insecure, muffin-Harry had said he would be back in two hours. Those two hours would be over in about forty-five minutes. Obviously, ( _obviously!_ ), Harry Potter was not actually going to show up at Draco’s miniscule flat in half an hour! But… what if Draco had not imagined him? After all, it was the weirdest fantasy. Nothing like Draco’s usual. No submission, no sex. Harry had no confidence, Draco had on all his clothes. The coffee had even spilled. Did that mean it had really happened? It had felt so real while it was happening….

Slowly, telling himself he was being ridiculous, Draco chose his clothing with tremendous care anyway. If the real Harry was going to arrive at his door and take him out to lunch (could anything be more preposterous?! Lunch! Of all things! The profoundly mundane and pedestrian _lunch_?!), then what should Draco sensibly choose to wear? He went with his most ambiguous outfit. A set of lace-up grey trousers that were classic in style, and a short cotton and linen blend robe in an attractive, monochromatic navy blue. It went well with the trousers and Draco’s eyes. His boots were a lost cause. He had to wear the one pair he owned, whether he liked them or not. He could clean and shine them, though. He shot a spell in their direction and they looked better. He shot a second one at them and nodded with satisfaction. That was as good as they were going to get. He put them on and stared into the mirror.

There. Dressed. It was suitable for a date, for a day at work, for lunch with his mother or a friend. It was a little conservative, but the colours were good and the fit was still correct. Not tight, not sexy, just appropriate. It would do. It would do whether or not Harry knocked. It would do whether Harry suggested a fancy restaurant or a casual one. It would do whether Harry wanted Diagon Alley or had a portkey to somewhere… else. Which he wouldn’t, because there was no way that the real life Harry Potter was going to knock on Draco’s door a first time today, let alone a second.

Shaking his head at his own overactive, lonely mind, Draco stepped into his tiny beige sitting room. He looked around at his little flat. The flat opened directly into the sitting room with no hall in between, and the sitting room was right next to the small open kitchen. One knew which was which by the change in flooring. He had a couch against the wall and a desk by the one window.

From the sitting room, if one didn’t wish to enter the kitchen, one had three whole doors to choose from: the bathroom, the bedroom, and the tall cupboard where he hung his only coat. The bathroom was also accessible from the bedroom, which Draco still thought was rather a clever use of such a small space.

And that was Draco’s entire flat! Imagine, the great, beloved, heroic, and irritatingly handsome _Harry fucking Potter_ knocking at the front door to _this_!

Smiling sadly at himself, Draco sat at his desk. If he no longer had the concentration for potions research today, he could nonetheless write a letter. “Dear Blaise,” he began. Then he stared out the window. He didn’t want to bore Blaise with talk of his dragging potions research. As for his job, he’d already told his old friend all the basic details plus every possible entertaining anecdote in the last letter he’d sent, almost a month before.

He managed to write down a pleasant introduction. Draco was fine, work was fine, Mother was fine, Blaise’s last letter had been a delight to read. He scratched down a couple of lines about Pansy, hoping Blaise had seen her or knew what she was up to in her flight from her old and ugly husband. He managed, he thought, to suggest that he’d given Pansy a great deal of money while not actually directly saying how much. Blowing at the ink contemplatively, Draco hoped Blaise would feel duty-bound to try and best Draco’s implied sum. Wherever she was, a good owl should still be able to find her, and she almost certainly needed money again.

Draco had run into Queenie and Daphne on his way out of the Ministry the week before, and they’d exchanged some polite small talk, so Draco wrote down a bit about that, and about how well both girls had been turned out in the latest fashions. 

Draco had eaten dinner with Millicent Bulstrode and her new boyfriend last week. He wrote a few sentences about how Millicent had managed to secure a decent job in the broom industry, and there had met the South African born Bhek. He was a little older than they, but he clearly thought the world of Millicent, and he was a solid, honest fellow with a good job in a stable industry. He was even almost handsome.

Draco tried not to make his envy plain as he wrote.

Draco suddenly remembered an amusing story his mother had told him about Goyle’s Mum and a painting she’d done out on the moor near her home, and he worked to repeat it as humorously as possible.

Deep into his thoughts, Draco startled at the sound of a firm rap on his front door. “O’Sullivan,” he thought with a sinking gut. Then he jumped up from his chair. It couldn’t be… Harry? The very idea was ridiculous, but he smoothed his hair and shirt nonetheless.


	6. Six

Harry Potter had, actually, shown up about an hour and fifty minutes after he had left. Which put the time at just before 1pm and Draco was getting hungry along with being thoroughly gobsmacked and trying to hide it.

He let Potter in, and was pleased to see him wearing clothes that were both attractive and clean. Draco couldn’t firmly gauge how formal they were, since they were Muggle, but the green of Potter’s shirt brought out the green of his eyes, and that was very nice, indeed. Draco looked at his own carefully chosen gray and navy clothes: not formal, not casual. He hoped they were both attractive and generic enough for whatever was about to happen. He and Potter hadn’t really discussed their plans beyond “lunch.” Not to mention, Draco hadn’t really, fully believed this was going to happen until just now.

“Would you mind going to a Muggle restaurant?” Potter asked him, and Draco went hot, then icy cold.

“Er,” he hesitated. “I’m not really dressed for… and I don’t know anything about….” He swallowed once. “That.”

Potter ran a hand through his hair (which didn’t seem to change it much) and smiled apologetically. “I understand,” he said, and Draco wondered if he even could. “It’s only, I still get all this obnoxious attention on Diagon and stuff. I don’t want to have to deal with other people while I’m trying to be on a date with you. Y’know?”

Once again, Draco’s face burned and froze in quick succession. “This is… _a date_?” He accidentally whispered it.

Potter’s eyes widened and he looked a bit stricken. “Er,” he paused. “I hope so? Is that… okay?”

Draco sat on his couch. He really didn’t think he was dreaming, but how could he not be? He wondered how he was meant to check. (Should he pinch himself? He would look like a moron.) He looked up at Potter, who looked back at him. They were clearly both lost.

“Yes.” Draco spoke as firmly as possible. He knew there was a wobble in his voice, but Harry still looked at least slightly reassured by his answer. Draco tried again. “Yes, it is okay that this is a date. It is more than okay. I’d…” he hesitated out of sheer shock, the distraction that automatically arrived with so much astonished wonder, then forced himself to finish the sentence. “I’d like it to be a date. Very much.”

Harry smiled, and it was as though the room warmed by several degrees. Draco felt a knot he hadn’t even been aware of loosen in between his shoulders, and he smiled shyly in return. Then, flustered, he jumped up from his couch, nearly sat down again, stumbled slightly, and then rushed into the kitchen. “Sit! You should have a seat! Can I get you something to drink?”

Instead of sitting, Harry followed him into the kitchen. “Let’s wait and drink at the restaurant, all right? I know you aren’t familiar with Muggle stuff, but please, trust me? I know the perfect place. You’re dressed just right for it. You’ll fit right in and I can do all the talking?”

Draco clutched the half-full pitcher of lemonade he’d made a few days before and had been slowly drinking. Harry Potter was pleading with Draco to _trust him_. Like he could possibly distrust Harry Potter, the war hero who had saved his life and gotten him his job. His massive crush on Potter was just a bonus. “All right,” he said, putting the pitcher down at the very edge of the worktop without really noticing. “I, all right.” Harry smiled at him and Draco felt his cheeks ice over and his scalp heat to burning.

Harry reached over, and Draco felt his spine shiver, as he watched Harry’s hand reach toward him. But all Harry did was push the lemonade back, away from the edge. Draco stared at the lemonade for a long moment, then he chanced a look at Harry’s face. Harry looked horribly embarrassed. “Er, I just….”

“Thank you,” Draco said, and he tried to give Harry a natural, grateful smile. “I hadn’t noticed that.”

Harry glowed at him. Glowed! Draco stared dumbly back for a moment before breaking eye contact. This was shaping up to be the oddest day Draco had experienced in... years, probably.

“Shall we?” Harry asked, and he gestured toward Draco’s front door. He patiently waited for Draco to fetch his wand and keys and wallet, to lock, then ward the door behind them, and wait for the lift to arrive.

“So,” Harry said as they stepped into the empty lift. “You like living here?”

“Keys and wards, both,” Draco answered, not sure what Harry meant. “It’s what the landlord recommends,” Draco mumbled, embarrassed. He stared at the scuffed floor of the creaky, old lift. No one else he knew used keys for manual, metal locks on their flat. Everyone else he still knew in London lived in a place that came with its own integrated warding, and when you rented a place you just added a few wards of your own, to personalize the feel, and perhaps fill in any cracks. Draco’s flat was too cheap, though, and his landlord nowhere near skilled enough.

“I think it’s brilliant!” Harry said. “I do that, too.”

“Really?” Draco whipped his head around to finally look Harry in the eye. “Why?”

“I guess,” Harry said, over the squeaks and groans of the lift, “because the house came with locks, and I grew up in a Muggle house with locks?”

Draco tipped his head and stared. “It’s… unusual,” he finally said. “You’re the first person I’ve met who does that. Who doesn’t live in my building, I mean.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked as they stepped into the lobby. It was empty, and Draco didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed. He had neighbors who would surely be a great deal nicer to him if they saw him stepping out with Harry Potter, of all people.

“Brill,” Harry said, apparently pleased to have unusual locking habits.

He smiled broadly at Draco, and in return, Draco found himself smiling back, almost relaxed. “Where are we going?” he asked, as they stepped onto the street. “How do we get there?”

“We’re heading to a little restaurant I like in Soho,” Harry said. “It’s a gay area. We’re basically close enough to walk? Except, it’ll take a while, though, twenty or thirty minutes, and it’s still a bit wet out here. Would you rather take the Knight Bus or something?”

“Er,” Draco said. He stopped on the sidewalk to look at the sky. He couldn’t see much of it here, but what he could see was sunny enough. It would be nice to have a chance to enjoy the sunshine, while it lasted. More to the point, the Knight Bus sounded horrible. He sometimes had motion sickness issues when he rode it, and the grouchy old curmudgeon who’d taken over after Stan Shunpike hated Draco vehemently. “No Apparating, then?”

Harry scratched the back of his neck and they stepped back, out of the way of a pair of Muggle-looking pedestrians walking hand-in-hand. “I never Apparate over there. I wouldn’t know where to pop in, you know?”

Draco didn’t exactly know, but he supposed it made sense, being a Muggle area. He nodded. “Why don’t we walk, then?”

“Great!” Harry said, pleased. “It will give us even more time to talk!”

They set off, and Draco didn’t know what to say, but Harry seemed to. He launched into chatter about the reconstruction of Hogwarts, talked a bit about how his friends had needed to go all the way to Australia to rescue Hermione’s parents from some sort of self-imposed exile Draco didn’t fully follow, and then asked about Draco’s friends.

Draco didn’t know why Harry would care, but — fresh from trying to be entertaining in his letter to Blaise — it was easy enough to tell a story or two about Millicent, about Queenie, even about Greg and Greg’s Mum.

It wasn’t long at all before Draco began to see decorations he didn’t understand. Harry explained the pink triangles* (horrifying), the rainbow flags (a much more welcome story), and all the related trappings of Pride, which was apparently to be celebrated in this very neighborhood around the end of June. Harry said there would be a parade, a carnival, and a music festival. That during June gay people ‘round the world celebrated being gay. He’d attended the year before, he said, and it had been wonderful.

Draco found himself rather secretly impressed along with being confused. He’d worried a bit about how his father would react (before he’d been sentenced to life in prison and it became a moot point), but only because Lucius had dropped enough hints over the years that Draco knew Lucius thought he’d be able to control Draco’s wife much the way he controlled Draco’s mother. Lucius would have expected a son-in-law to be harder to manipulate or bully. Once Draco’s father had been sentenced and taken away, Draco faced stigma for that, but for liking men? Except perhaps his mum, who else would care? Apparently, that wasn’t the way it worked for a lot of Muggles.

Sooner than Draco had expected, they were standing in front of a tiny but attractive little cafe: Soup and Sandwiches by Paul and Joe. Draco saw three little tables in front of the restaurant, each seating a pair of men. One of the couples was holding hands. So, this was what was meant by a gay, Muggle area. He could live with this.

Harry opened the door and Draco let Harry usher him inside, request a table, choose Draco’s chair and push it in.

It was… strange. Nice! But _Strange_.

Harry helped Draco decide what to eat, and he ordered for Draco when the waiter came. Despite the cafe’s name, Draco was able to order a small chicken parmigiana, which turned out to be quite nice, despite being one of the cheapest things available. He got a salad as well. It turned out to be enormous, so he shared it with Harry.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, embarrassed. “I thought it would be small!”

“It’s fine,” Harry reassured him. “I love it. It’s good!”

Harry ate half Draco’s salad along with a large roast beef sandwich, his original order. They shared an order of chips, and discovered they both preferred plain salt to vinegar. Harry had a bad habit of talking with his mouth full, but Draco found he could overlook it. Harry at least put his hand in front of his mouth when he did it, so that helped.

They spoke about work, silly little things about the Ministry: oddly charmed window scenes, memos fluttering everywhere, strange Unspeakables who seemed to lurk obviously — as though they were reveling in their mysterious reputation, only pretending to not want to be seen. There was nothing much to say about Draco’s cramped, beige flat, but they spoke about the work Harry was doing on his house. Sirius Black had left it to Harry and apparently the place was a bit of a dump.

In the midst of talking about cleaning and renovating the place, Harry suggested, yet again, that Draco visit some time, and Draco found himself agreeing.

They asked their waiter — his name tag said Calvin — about the Pride celebration, and he frowned. “There’s no committee this year, gents,” Calvin told them. “Everyone’s decorated, of course, but the thing fell apart. Don’t be buying any tickets. My flatmate bought a ticket but it’s a scam.” When he saw their faces fall, he tried to cheer them up. “Lots of people will be throwing their own parties, of course, you know! Even if there isn’t a march or a music festival this year, there’s plenty of ways to celebrate. I’m sure a lot of people will be found relaxing in Soho Square. Not to mention, you should come back again, eat here!” He winked hugely and Harry and Draco both laughed.

Soon their meals were completely eaten, their lemonade was drunk, and when Harry suggested they get a second order of chips and linger over it, Draco felt forced to demur. “I really am quite full,” he said, finding it strange to wish he was still hungry.

Silently, Draco watched Harry pay the bill. He felt a bit odd, not even offering to help pay for his own lunch, but it was a date! Besides, not only was Draco chronically strapped, but he was pretty sure no one at work had any idea that Draco had — via necessity — learned how to carry Muggle money to shop at Muggle grocery stores. Their food was no better, but at the right shop, most of it was a great deal cheaper. Even better, it often came with instructions written right on the box! At any rate, he didn’t think Harry had any expectation of Draco helping to pay this bill. He still squirmed a little though, watching Harry pay. He hated being poor.

Harry held the door for him as they left, and they turned toward Draco’s neighborhood. Draco checked the sky and saw it had finished clearing. The rain clouds were fully gone and the day was warmer. “Shall we walk again, then?” he asked, and Harry smiled, half at the ground, half at Draco.

“I’d like that,” Harry answered. “If it means spending more time with you.”

Draco felt his ears go hot, but he fell into step beside Harry and started walking back the way they had come.

Back to Draco’s flat.

Where he lived alone.

So he needed to decide whether or not to invite Harry in. Scratch that. He needed to decide whether or not to _**!Invite! !Harry! !In!**_

 _Harry_ , who was everything. _Harry_ who had saved his life two years after nearly ending it. _Harry_ , who had practically forced their boss to hire Draco. _Harry_ , who was chattering on about something at work; the paperwork? or the class he had been asked to lead? Draco was smiling and nodding and hmming his responses while most of his brain struggled with this sudden, monumental problem. Namely, did he invite Harry in, and if so, did that mean he was agreeing to sex? And if they _did_ have sex, what would that mean?

Harry hadn’t wanted to eat in the wizarding world. Or walk, or be seen. Harry worked with Draco five days a week, but had never once approached him about a date when they were at the Ministry. Was he hiding in that way that Draco had come to see Harry so often did — just seeking some privacy — or was he hiding _Draco_? They hadn’t been spotted in Draco’s hall, or the lift, or even the lobby. Was that an accident, or had Harry somehow made that happen?

Did Harry feel, like a lot of Muggles apparently did, that being gay was outside the norm, strange, even hard to accept? Draco remembered how Harry had explained the Nazis and the pink triangles and forced himself to breathe carefully and deeply, so as not to vomit.

Did Harry think he needed to hide being gay from his friends? His boss? His Weasleys?

Could Draco stand to be Harry’s dirty little gay secret?

Was that even on offer?

Draco’s salad, chips and chicken parmigiana churned in his stomach as he continued to smile and nod and agree as Harry chattered on about… something. Draco should probably already know what.

Suddenly, everything Harry did seemed to be significant. A sign, a sublimated or hidden communique. He turned his head and smiled at Draco. That meant something, right? Did it mean he was glad to be out with Draco? Or did it mean he was glad to be out with Draco _where no-one from work or Hogwarts or the Prophet would see_? He brushed his hand against Draco’s but he didn’t make a move to hold it. Was he subtly suggesting he would like to hold Draco’s hand? Did he want Draco to do the rest? Or, perhaps, was it an accidental touch, and he was bothered by it? Was he, therefore, really glad that Draco made no move to follow up and take Harry’s hand? Or was he outright rejecting the option of holding Draco’s hand? Was he, perhaps, intentionally communicating “I am not willing to hold your hand and that is why I touched you there. So you would know I am not trying to hold your hand.” Was that it?

Draco felt the blood start to pound in his ears to go along with the churning in his stomach. They turned a corner and he saw his building, just a few dozen yards away, and he swallowed.

Harry said something in a pleasant tone, but Draco didn’t understand any of the words. It was as though Harry was speaking through water, or sending his voice through a musical instrument. Draco ducked his head and smiled, and hoped he didn’t look too much of a numpty.

He couldn’t be anyone’s hidden fuck, he decided. No, it was more a realization than a decision. As much as he wanted Harry, as often as he fantasized about submitting to Harry’s will, that was fantasy. In reality, in life, he was dominated in almost everything, in almost every part of his life. He couldn’t be humiliated in love, as well. It would destroy him.

They got to the front door of Draco’s building, and Draco knew he needed to say something, but he didn’t know what it could be, and the next thing he knew, they had walked through the empty, ugly, shabby beige lobby and were in the lift. Both of them together, alone in the creaky, dusty lift.

Panicking, Draco hardly noticed the silence between them. He had to say something. He had to figure out what Harry actually wanted, the real reason he had shown up at Draco’s door with tea and muffins.

Until he knew, he couldn’t let Harry back in his flat.

The lift doors creaked and groaned open, and Draco stepped out into the dingy hallway. “Er,” Draco said, “our wards are pretty bad, so don’t worry, you can Apparate from here.”

“I, oh,” Harry said, and Draco watched Harry’s face fall, watched Harry try to reclaim it, back to calm. “Sure, if you want.”

“I, er, brewing?” Draco tried, and heard his voice actually, honest-to-Merlin _squeak_ as he tried to finish the sentence.

“Yes!” Harry said, and he looked… relieved? “I interrupted your brewing when I came by earlier!”

“Yes, er, lunch was really brilliant, I should thank you….”

“Oh, you’ve thanked me loads of times,” Harry said, and he ducked his head, scratched at his neck. “You don’t need, I mean, I’m glad you liked it.”

“Right,” Draco said, by now rather desperate to make this anguished mess of ‘conversation’ end, “so, er, I’ll see you at work on Monday, obviously….”

“Right, of course,” Harry ducked his head again, his ears pink. “Monday.” Harry made a weird movement toward Draco, an aborted sort of lurch, and Draco thought he might be trying for a handshake, so he reached out his right hand. Harry took it, but he kept going, and soon Draco found himself with an armful of pink-eared Harry.

The hug was very brief. Draco scarcely had time to figure out whether he should properly wrap his arms around Harry before the other man jumped away, bent his head once, almost like a little bow, and then spun off into thin air. His pop of Apparition was one of the quietest Draco had ever observed. Auror training, Draco supposed. Or maybe it just meant Harry wasn’t the least bit upset.

Dejected and confused, Draco unlocked and unwarded his door, and entered his flat.

With his last comments to Harry fresh on his mind, Draco shut his front door, turned the deadbolt, and strode into his kitchen. He raised his wand to remove his stasis spells and begin working on his pet project again, but instead of casting, he did nothing. He just stood there, feeling lost as he slowly lowered his arm.

Running his hands through his hair, Draco stared at his potions work and groaned. “I’m not going to get anything done, am I?” he asked his kitchen. The resounding silence gave Draco a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He turned toward his desk, where his letter to Blaise still sat, incomplete.

For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine what he could possibly write to Blaise. It wasn’t as though he was going to chattily, charmingly relate the date he’d just turned away at his front door. Like Blaise would even believe him! And setting that aside, he hardly wanted to share this… development. He had no idea what it meant, where it was going, or what Harry really wanted. If Harry was looking for a hidden bit of arse on the side, Draco was hardly going to brag about being the one Harry thought he could dupe into that role.

Shoulders slumping, Draco looked at his kitchen worktop again. The work that had fascinated and excited him a few hours ago now exhausted him just to look at. He was kidding himself to think he could accomplish anything worthwhile with his amateur potions research, he told himself. He hugged himself round the middle and considered. What the hell to do?

He wouldn’t be hungry for hours, he wasn’t tired, he couldn’t write, he didn’t have anything to read, and potions research seemed like utter folly right now.

Defeated and overwhelmed, Draco turned to his bedroom and slouched toward the door. He could always masturbate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pink_triangle Pink triangle. From Wikipedia
> 
> https://www.ushmm.org/wlc/en/article.php?ModuleId=10005378 Classification System in Nazi Concentration Camps
> 
> http://time.com/5295476/gay-pride-pink-triangle-history/ How the Nazi Regime's Pink Triangle Symbol Was Repurposed for LGBTQ Pride
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pride_in_London “In 1998, the Pride Trust became insolvent and no event was organised that year although an organisation called 'Pride Events UK' took money for tickets for one.”
> 
>  
> 
> And for those who like to read books.  
> https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/391660.The_Pink_Triangle?from_search=true  
> About the book: The Pink Triangle: The Nazi War Against Homosexuals  
> By Richard Plant


	7. Seven

Nearly 45 minutes later, unsettled and barely hard, Draco curled into a miserable ball and stared out his bedroom window. Shockingly, he had been wrong. Apparently he could _not_ always masturbate. This very afternoon, for example, and for the first time since he had started getting erections, he could not. Instead of diving deep into any of his favourite fantasies of submitting to Harry Potter, Draco had instead wallowed in every insecurity he had ever had. He’d found a couple of new ones, too, and damn — were they potent.

What if this was a pity fuck Harry had been offering? The poor little Death Eater was never going to get a date. Why not throw a bone his way? _Pun intended_ , Draco thought, and snorted into his pillow.

Could Harry think Draco owed him — his life, his freedom, his job — and thought Draco should feel obligated to pay him back with sexual favours?

What if Harry was seeking some sort of twisted revenge? Trick Draco into something that he thought was real, then pull the carpet out from under him? Laughing all the way?

Or what if, as Draco had worried on the walk home, Harry’s goal was simply a free fuck: a chance to get whatever he wanted without having to invest any real energy, any honest care?

What if Harry thought of Draco as dispensable? Unimportant? Unworthy?

Now emotionally exhausted, fighting back tears, and despite the early hour, Draco fell asleep again. It was the easiest way to stop thinking about so many horrible possibilities.

* * *

** - _ - ** - _ - ** - _ - ** - _ - ** - _ - ** - _ - ** - _ - ** - _ - **

Sunday he ate dinner with Mother, as per usual. Before he arrived he did every chore he could think of, so he would be less likely to accidentally blurt out the shocking news of Saturday’s date.

It worked.

Mother was fascinated by Draco’s newest adult/Muggle experience: the dry cleaner. Auror Maisuradze had convinced him to try it, he explained to Mother, who hung on his every word, her chicken and vegetables steaming merrily away, ignored under her fork. Natia’s mother was Muggleborn, and — according to Mrs Maisuradze — if you couldn’t get a stain out with the first two spells, you stopped trying and took the garment to a dry cleaner, before you ruined it. He’d spilled mustard on his best trousers in the Ministry cafeteria a few days before, and Natia was kind enough to recommend (and explain) a dry cleaner. Mother found the entire story fascinating, so Draco dragged it out as long as possible. 

Luckily for Draco’s story-telling needs, the man at the counter had been foreign. He’d had an accent Draco found lilting and attractive. He also wore a cloth wrap on his heavily bearded head, and that meant he practiced a Muggle religion Draco had looked up and read multiple pages about after he’d left the dry cleaning shop. Both of these details gave him even more titbits to distract Mother with. Mother loved a good Muggle library story, even though she was yet to be brave enough to accompany him inside one.

After that, there was the tale of deciding between two different brands of macaroni and cheese (the lowest-budget one he’d always bought, and the one that was suddenly on sale, and therefore newly affordable), and the ever popular discussion of when Draco might be deemed to warrant a raise in salary. He and his mum could dissect that one for hours, really. His mother agreed it was far too early to outright request one, but they both rather enjoyed the process of considering when that might finally change.

Draco went home full, even relaxed. And with Mum none the wiser about the “date” he’d gone on with Harry Potter. One Draco could not possibly have explained.

* * *

** - _ - ** - _ - ** - _ - ** - _ - ** - _ - ** - _ - ** - _ - ** - _ - **

Monday morning was stressful, but Draco did not actually see Harry all day. The department was in chaos, as some enormous, important case was apparently wrapping up. Frazzled Aurors were in and out all day. There were two major arrests. Then they were all incredibly exhausted and several of them got the rest of the week off.

Draco mostly worked on his Gringotts security project and wondered where Harry was.

He didn’t even know if Harry was one of the Aurors who was getting the rest of the week off.

* * *

** - _ - ** - _ - ** - _ - ** - _ - ** - _ - ** - _ - ** - _ - ** - _ - **

On Tuesday there was something of a celebration at work, as the real details of the huge bust finally started to trickle down to Draco. Harry was not one of the primary Aurors on the case, as it happened, though he had assisted with several arrests at the very end, as had almost every Auror on the force.

It was Robbe, Singh, Bērziņš, and (of all people) Weasley who had put in all the extra time and caught two truly evil dealers of illegal potions. Head Auror Bergum was practically beside himself with pride over the swift and orderly arrests, the attention to detail and the carefully followed procedures. Draco found himself receiving first one, then two manly back-slaps as the day progressed.

It was good, but awfully strange.

It was like he… belonged.

Putting that mad thought to the side, Draco processed mounds of arrest-related paperwork, communicated with prickly goblins, and even managed to get appropriate rooms reserved for the training classes Bergum needed him to move now that four Aurors suddenly and unexpectedly had the rest of the week off. He even ordered the lunch for Wednesday and Thursday’s planning meetings, which was only notable because Bergum was suddenly tired of Ministry cafeteria food and wanted him to order from a Mexican restaurant which turned out to have fairly spotty Floo access.

Draco did see Harry a few times on Tuesday, but only from across the room — Harry never spoke to him. This was a little unusual, but the truly odd thing was the way Harry blushed and looked away both times Draco accidentally caught his eye.

On Wednesday Draco woke up with an aching throat, a splitting headache, and a nasty, wracking cough. With the help of a neighbor, he managed to owl Head Auror Bergum a sick note before he collapsed back into bed. He finally felt well enough to head downstairs and Floo to a drop-in Healer’s office at 11am, where he was sold multiple potions and sent directly home to sleep. He woke Thursday morning feeling a million times better as well as ravenously hungry. He ate twice as much breakfast as usual (perfectly affordable, after a full day of eating nothing more nutritious than milky tea) and Flooed off to work, grateful not to be sick any longer.

On Thursday and Friday, as expected, Harry was in planning and training sessions all day. Draco found himself trying to apologize to Aurors for his sick day and being rebuffed repeatedly.

It was Natia Maisuradze who finally convinced Draco to stop apologizing. “No one wanted your germs, Malfoy, we’re all glad you stayed the hell away. Now get back to work, will you?”

On Saturday morning Draco woke only half an hour later than his usual weekend wake-up time, feeling healthy and eager to work on potions, until he remembered his potions work had been interrupted a week before by Harry Potter showing up at his flat unexpectedly. What if that happened again? He told himself that was ridiculous and got up to shower and dress. He made himself porridge for breakfast and got so distracted by thoughts of Harry Potter and potential unexpected arrivals that he added brown sugar, Aldi’s “maple” syrup _and_ nearly half a teaspoon of honey to his oats before he realized what he’d done.

He didn’t know a spell to fix it, so he added a bit more salt and choked down the overly-sweet oats with a cup of overly strong tea. He’d hoped stronger tea would help him deal with the half-ruined porridge, but it didn’t work very well.

Finally, he had downed enough to justify Vanishing the rest, and began to mechanically set up for a day of brewing. Every bump, though, every knock and bang and every noise in general — no matter how far away or soft — convinced him all over again that Harry Potter had arrived, unannounced again, at his front door.

Draco found himself staring at his door for the umpteenth time, doing nothing of value, because he was so distracted.

“That’s it,” he declared, annoyed at himself. “I’m just going to owl. When I know he really isn’t coming back, I’ll be able to work, already!”

Draco stomped out of his flat, locking the door behind him. He stomped down the hall to the lift and stomped four doors down the street to the owl rental place. It would have been easier to borrow Mrs Kishar’s owl, like he had when he had come over ill, but he didn’t like to overstep. That morning had been an emergency.

> Dear Harry, I’m sure I am being quite ridiculous, but I can’t seem to do any potions work because I keep thinking you’ll stop by again. I’m sure you have far better things to do, so if you would please just let me know that, I can quiet my anxious mind and get back to work on this potions project.  
> Eagerly awaiting your confirmation,  
> Draco

He paid the fee, sent the owl, and headed home to sit in his window with a cup of tea and wait for a return note. He hoped it would arrive quickly. 


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit short, but a lot happens, nonetheless!

Draco sat, silent and nervous, for long enough that his mind finally drifted away from thoughts of Harry and their lunch, the previous weekend.

He was contemplating goblins and Auror security options for Gringotts when a loud rap came upon the door to his flat, startling him. Sighing out “ _finally_ ," Draco turned to the window to let in the owl.

The window had no owl.

Someone knocked at the door again.

Draco swallowed, afraid to imagine who might be at his door. He stood, and walked the few steps there. He unlocked it and pulled the door open.

Harry was there. Again. With a bakery box and two cups from Costa Coffee. Again.

“Come… in?” Draco asked, accidentally. He hadn’t intended to inflect that as a question. But Harry smiled tentatively and came inside, again slipping off his ratty trainers before putting the coffees and box on Draco’s kitchen table.

“I brought two blueberry muffins, this time!” he said. Harry sounded sort of stupidly hopeful and Draco’s resolve simply broke inside him.

Draco shut his door, locked it and strode three steps to Harry. He put his hands on Harry’s broad shoulders and looked to Harry’s eyes. Harry turned his face up a bit, to look Draco in the eye, and what they each saw must have communicated clearly, because before Draco knew quite how, they were kissing.

Harry kissed like Draco possessed something vital, something Harry had to have — immediately. He tasted of coffee and hope, and Draco was more lost than he could remember being.

“I want to suck your cock, so much,” Draco heard, whispered into his neck. All he could do was dumbly nod. He led Harry into his little bedroom and tried to remain calm as they helped each other undress between soft kisses.

They got on the bed together, and Harry gently guided Draco onto his back, right in the middle. This was terrifying at first, because Draco was still technically a virgin and he didn’t feel quite ready to bottom, but how could he possibly refuse? Harry was the only man he wanted. Not to mention, he owed Harry everything. But Harry took Draco into his mouth, made no moves to touch Draco’s hole, and the only thing he seemed to want to do to Draco’s arse was pet it and squeeze the cheeks. Instead of rushing right into fucking, Harry wanted to just… touch Draco.

Draco allowed this for a while, because it was wonderful at first. But it felt unbalanced, unfair, to just lie back and accept so much pleasure; so, shortly after Harry slid down Draco’s fully bared skin, Draco insisted on flipping around and turning a one-sided blow-job into an exploration of the position Harry called “sixty-nine.”

Finally, Draco was getting to see Harry’s cock! He touched it, and Harry sighed out, gustily. He gripped the shaft, planning to take the head right into his mouth, but he paused, unintentionally, just to look. He’d long imagined Harry’s dick as a great deal longer and fatter than his own. It was not. Judging by how it fit into Draco’s hand, it seemed it was probably the same width. If it was longer than his own, he didn’t yet have proof, but just from the look, he thought it might be. Just a little.

Or that could have been wishful thinking.

He tentatively took the end into his mouth, and Harry made a small, helpless noise in response. Draco allowed himself to feel some pride. Then he dismissed it, in favour of trying to give Harry pleasure.

No matter how big or small the penis in question, Draco was nowhere near ready to have anyone actually ejaculate in his mouth — or the reverse, frankly — not even Harry. Which, thankfully, Harry accepted with grace and kisses and no reproof. Instead, Harry wanted to press Draco down into the bed again, this time with their lubed-up cocks rubbing against one another, and their stomachs, and their balls…. Draco made a huge, embarrassing mess all over Harry when he came.

* * *

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When Harry slipped away, two hours after he’d arrived, Draco drifted into his kitchen — a bit tired, shower-damp, somewhat dazed — and finally thought of all the things he should have said, and asked, and insisted upon.

“What does this mean, Harry? What do _I_ mean?”

He looked at the now-cold drinks in their paper sleeves and the abandoned blueberry muffins — still hidden in their folded white paper box. He sat at his kitchen table and absolutely refused to let himself cry.


	9. Nine

Draco arrived at work 45 minutes early on Monday morning, which meant he arrived before all the Aurors except Head Auror Bergum and Auror Bērziņš, who were in the Head Auror’s office with the door open, quietly discussing a case that seemed to involve a lot of maps.

They waved at him distractedly and he waved back, then filled his Muggle travel carafe (spelled to never spill) with hot Earl Grey and milk and got to work on the Goblin Security Situation, as he had come to think of it.

He was vaguely aware as Auror after Auror arrived at work, some sliding in silently, some making a racket. Harry arrived with Weasley, as he often did on Monday mornings. Draco offered them a distracted hello in response to something Weasley muttered through a mouthful of bagel.

Harry, however, stopped right in front of Draco’s desk.

“Er, hi,” Harry said, and Draco looked up at him and worked hard not to swallow his tongue.

“If I’m — I mean, would you like to — that is, at lunch, maybe we….” Clearly frustrated and embarrassed, Harry scrubbed his hand through his hair. Draco forced himself not to look around and check what all the other Aurors were doing with their faces as one of them fumbled through… asking him out to lunch?

Instead, Draco tried hard to rescue Harry from himself, but all he managed was a tiny, broken, squeaking noise which did not deserve to live.

“Come to lunch with me? Please?” Harry finally barked out with no little amount of desperation.

Draco honestly wanted to say something confident and reassuring, like “I would love to,” but found himself capable only of nodding furiously, instead. Luckily, Harry responded to this with a large smile and lowered shoulders. “Noon, then,” he said, and vanished as completely as though he’d Apparated.

* * *

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Lunch ended in a broom cupboard. This time, Draco had apparently gotten over his apprehension about ejaculating in Harry’s mouth. He was not called upon to return the favour, though, as it turned out Harry came on the floor while sucking Draco’s cock.

At least they had managed to down a couple of mediocre cafeteria sandwiches before their lust overcame them.

Draco thought about offering to bottom, but he couldn’t quite manage to accept that his first time would be in a broom cupboard, and, well, Harry seemed perfectly happy.

* * *

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On Tuesday Draco was getting some supplies from a cupboard when Harry surprised him — first with his presence, and then with a snog session that ended up meaning they both needed to use cleaning spells on their clothes.

* * *

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As Harry had warned him on Saturday (while they had been resting together in bed! Just remembering it got Draco flushed and tongue-tied.) Harry was away all day on both Wednesday and Thursday. Draco found himself surprisingly productive at work, and surprisingly depressed once he arrived home to his empty flat. He tried to make himself a somewhat fancier dinner than usual on Wednesday night. His cooking came out fine, but then he had to eat it all by himself.

Thursday evening he gave up and went to bed two hours early.

* * *

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On Friday Harry went to Bergum and specifically requested Draco’s assistance with a research project, deep in the archives. Silent and nervous, Draco followed Harry downstairs into the bowels of the building. Was this a real research project? It certainly could be, based on what Draco knew about Harry’s current workload. But why would he want Draco’s help, specifically, when there were part-time archivists whose assistance the department could have requisitioned? He wasn’t sure this was about research. He wasn’t sure this was about snogging. He was on edge, nervous, and a little too sexually excited for meandering the halls of the Ministry at 9:20am.

It turned out to be about both research and snogging. Harry backed Draco up against the archive door as soon as they closed it behind them, and it wasn’t long before they were both declaring a desire to not come inside their pants. Harry introduced Draco to the joys of wrapping one of his large, callused hands around both of their cocks and kissing Draco through a mutual masturbation session that had Draco falling apart all over Harry embarrassingly quickly.

Once their hands, clothes, and the floor were clean again, Harry smiled at Draco and rested his head on Draco’s shoulder. “I needed to get that out of the way first,” he whispered, sounding breathy and intimately quiet, so close to Draco’s ear. “I’d never have been able to concentrate on research, otherwise.”

Then Harry explained why he’d wanted Draco’s research help, in particular, and they got to work trying to find connections between the real, original Death Eaters and the small band of moronic teenagers who were apparently trying to copy them and might have actually stumbled onto something that was honestly dangerous.

They managed to work though a good section of the relevant boxes and almost to lunch before Harry started to flirt. Soon Harry had Draco pressed against the door again.

Draco was still so discombobulated by this whole… situation that although he knew he should finally, verbally, try to offer to bottom; he ended up mumbling a salad of useless words instead.

Nonetheless, it was time. Past time. They’d fooled around multiple times now, and not only had Draco never once let Harry properly come inside his arse, they’d not had anything remotely resembling a talk about what this meant, or defining their “relationship.” (Was this a _relationship_? The thought made Draco hyperventilate slightly.)

“You should,” Draco tried. “I should — that is, I can — although the floor might not — but there are cushioning charms for that,” he managed.

Harry smiled, kissed him again, and shot a cushioning charm at the floor.

“Have sex with me?” Harry said, and — oh look — Draco had discovered something more effective than a strong stunning charm. He fought to reorganize his thoughts, but Harry was kissing him and pulling at his shoulders, and they were taking off each other’s clothes.

They had locked the door ages before, and Harry’s silencing charms were a thing of beauty.

“You deserve to,” Draco began, and Harry bit his neck.

“I think it’s time we,” Draco said, but Harry wrapped a hand around Draco’s erection and Draco’s eyes rolled back in his head.

“ _I_ think it’s time for us lie down and come together,” Harry husked into Draco’s ear, and Draco could only nod and lie down. The cushioning charm was perfect and Draco knew this could finally be his first proper fuck. They were alone, they weren’t expected, and Harry deserved to fuck him. He spread his legs and pulled Harry onto his chest, between his legs, over him, dominating him, as was proper.

Harry though, began to kiss down Draco’s chest, his belly, his cock, and Draco couldn’t seem to find a way to stop him from taking Draco’s cock into his mouth. Again. Which was just wrong except that it felt so ridiculously wonderful.

“I should… but _you_ should, I mean… because...” Draco muttered and mumbled and gave up on words. His mouth could still suck cock, though, so he manhandled Harry off him, turned himself around, and took one of Harry’s balls into his mouth.

“Yes, Draco, _Merlin_ ,” Harry moaned, and sixty-nining it was. He couldn’t seem to open his mouth to properly offer up his virgin arse, and heaven only knew why, but he could at least offer up his mouth to get fucked, to suck down come, to give Harry pleasure. Even if Harry was giving him pleasure at the same time, which might not fit the order of things, but weirdly seemed to please Harry, nonetheless.

“That was good, but….” Draco struggled to explain himself after they had both come. They were in each other’s arms, now, and Harry’s head was on Draco’s shoulder.

“No ‘but’,” Harry said, pulling Draco close. “Not for me. It was just plain good. I loved it. We should do that every damn day.”

“Whatever you want,” Draco attempted, trying to sound confident. But the way he melted inside when Harry caressed his cheek made him wonder if he’d ever had a chance at denying this man.

* * *

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This time, before Harry left work on Friday, he stopped at Draco’s desk and officially asked if he could take Draco out to dinner Saturday evening. Weasley even watched, and Harry clearly didn’t care. Draco was pretty sure Auror Robbe was eavesdropping on them, too, but Harry didn’t seem to mind in the least.

It was confusing, exhilarating and frightening, all at the same time.

It was even weirder when Head Auror Bergum stopped by his desk on his way out the door, roughly patted his shoulder, and said something about what a good job he’d been doing lately. “Potter speaks very highly of you,” he said, and Draco nodded once, feeling his face flame. Then Bergum _winked_ at Draco, patted his desk, and turned to leave before Draco could manage to squeak out a proper “Thank you, Sir.”

It was enough to make a man pull out a mangled, ancient, hand-me-down copy of the employee manual, and find the section where it unambiguously stated:  
**Dating within the department is acceptable, but if a relationship becomes serious the Head Auror should be informed.**

* * *

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On Saturday Harry showed up at Draco’s front door on time, with flowers, dressed for a fancy Muggle restaurant. He didn’t bat an eyelash when Draco’s next-door neighbor saw him in the hallway and raised both eyebrows in shock. Instead, he guided Draco into the lift by the small of his back and smiled at Mr Franklin as the lift door closed, leaving Draco alone with Harry and his amazement.

He finally said something after the waiter took their orders. Beef for Harry, chicken for Draco because it was rude to order the most expensive thing on the menu, even if Harry had.

“Did you tell the Head Auror about… this?” he managed, sipping delicately at his cold water.

“About us getting serious?” Harry said casually, as though this was normal. “Yeah. Seemed like it was time. Why? He wasn’t negative with you, was he?”

Draco shook his head. “No, he was… uh, supportive. And, but… you asked me out in front of Weasley. And Robbe. And you let my neighbor, Franklin, see you as we got into the lift.”

“Draco,” Harry said, and now he looked so sad. He reached across the table and took Draco’s frozen, curled up hand into his own. Draco stared at the hand holding his. “Did you think I wanted to hide you? Hide this?”

“Uh,” Draco said, intelligently.

“I don’t,” Harry said. “I really like you. I really like spending time with you. I guess I’ve always been kind of…”

Draco looked up and was astonished to see that Harry’s cheeks had pinked up, along with the tops of his ears. Why would _Harry_ be blushing?

Harry squeezed Draco’s hand and took a deep breath. “I’ve been drawn to you since we were boys,” he told Draco. “I talked about you all the time, back at school. I drove Hermione and Ron mad with it. Draco this, Draco that. Draco, Draco, Draco.”

“But,” Draco said, still confused, “wasn’t it all… negative?”

Harry laughed out loud. Loud enough that a few other people in the restaurant looked over at them. Now Draco was the one who was probably blushing the hardest, but Harry seemed so carefree. “Have you ever heard that saying about how there’s no such thing as bad press?”

Draco thought that sounded vaguely familiar, so he nodded his head.

“You got under my skin,” Harry said, staring into Draco’s eyes. “You were constantly on my mind. No, I didn’t like you back then, but I didn’t even know I was bisexual back then. I was a stupid kid and I didn’t understand… like… anything. I like to think I’m a lot smarter now.” He smiled warmly at Draco, who couldn’t think of a blessed thing to say in response except —

“Oh.”

* * *

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Dinner was lovely, and Harry brought Draco home with him in a Muggle taxi, which was new and exciting at first, except it took positively ages to get where they were going, so then it was boring, even if Draco looked out the taxi windows.

But Harry seemed to figure that out, so he started caressing Draco’s inner thigh, and soon Draco wasn’t bored at all. “Can we Apparate out of a taxi?” he whispered into Harry’s ear, but Harry said no, laughing kindly, and then it wasn’t all that long before they were in front of Harry’s invisible house.

The house appeared in front of them as Harry kissed him, so Draco kind of missed the magic, but kissing Harry was pretty magical too, if he was allowed to be sappy.

“Come upstairs with me?” Harry said as they stumbled through the front door together.

 _Yes_ , Draco thought, relieved. They were finally going to have _proper_ sex. He could finally do this right.

They tripped up the stairs together, Harry pulling Draco by the hand. Harry’s bedroom was dark, but there were so many candles and Harry lit them with one wave of his wand, and it was fine that all Draco could really see was Harry. And then Harry’s large bed.

They pulled one another’s clothes off, awkward and eager and messy, and Draco bent over to yank his wand out of the pocket of the trousers he’d just pulled off. He finally had a real reason to cast the spells he’d been practicing at home: to clean himself, stretch himself, lubricate himself for Harry’s convenience and pleasure. _For Harry’s cock_ , he thought, and shivered.

“Can I fuck your thighs?” Harry said, stepping closer, caressing Draco’s lower back, nuzzling his ear, and Draco could only stare down at him in confusion.

“No,” Draco said as firmly as he could. “You can fuck my _arse_.”

Harry kissed his neck. “Would you mind terribly if I didn’t?” he asked quietly, mouth still right next to Draco’s ear, and Draco sort of snapped.

“Yes,” he said, firm, loud, confused and petulant. “I _mind_. All this foreplay stuff is nice, it’s good! But Harry, you’re a top, and I’m a bottom, and it’s time. You keep buying me food! And you want everyone to know! What, I mean... _Merlin_! What would they all _think_?”

Harry sat down on his bed, hard and fast and even a little uncoordinated. He was staring at Draco, but he didn’t look besotted this time, or turned on. He looked… (if Draco was being honest with himself — something he was getting better and better at with all this damn practice) Harry looked supremely confused. Worse, he also looked a little disappointed.

Draco swallowed and stopped wringing his hands. “What I mean is,” he tried, though he sounded — even to his own ears — like he was trying to talk a house-elf into giving him an extra biscuit after bedtime. He cleared his throat, sat next to Harry and tried a third time, still staring at his bare feet. “What I _mean_ is that I’m a virgin, and I’d really like to lose my virginity to you. Tonight. That would feel really special.”

Harry took Draco’s hand and turned his head, but Draco couldn’t look higher than Harry’s bare chest. He had a scar that Draco wondered about, but before he could let his thoughts derail, Harry was talking, soft and earnest, and — feeling damn near compelled — Draco listened to every word.

“There is so much you just said, and I have so much I need to say in response. I’m probably going to fuck this up a little, so, er, please let me get it all out before you ask me anything?”

Draco gave Harry one dumb little nod of assent.

“So, I guess the first thing is, I’m so surprised to hear you say you’re a virgin? Because I thought we’d been having sex for over a week now. So I guess you think you’ll be a virgin until someone sticks his dick in your arse? Or, you know, vice versa. But, er, first, I don’t think that way about virginity, like, at all, and second, that won’t be me. You said I’m a top, but I know _I_ never said I was, because, er, I don’t want to be. Or a bottom, if that’s what you were wondering. It’s more, that, I’m not interested in anal?”

Draco felt his mouth open in shock. He thought _how is that possible?_ But he wasn’t able to say it, for some reason. He apparently wasn’t able to say… anything right now.

But Harry continued to talk, and Draco remembered he’d actually been asked to keep his mouth shut anyway. So his complete lack of intelligent response was actually a good thing right now.

“I’m,” Harry swallowed and looked at his feet. “I fancy you _so much_ , Draco. I want to touch you, fuck, all the time, basically. It’s getting distracting at work, to be honest. It’s why I finally told the Head Auror. But as much as I want to touch you, and, er, uh, taste you, and, Merlin, just be near you and ask you questions and listen to your answers and… all that, I just, I don’t, there are things I don’t really want to do right now, you know? And, I guess, if that were the only way you were willing to be naked with me, I might, uh, have to reconsider? But, you know, we’ve been fooling around for days and it’s been so amazing, and I thought you were enjoying it as much as I was? So, um, that’s all I have right now. Do you, er, have anything you want to say in response?”

There was just one thing left in Draco’s brain, and it fell out of his mouth without consideration. “Of course you’re a top. You’re Harry Potter. How could you not be a top?”

“Draco,” Harry was looking at his own damn feet again. “I’m not interested in that kind of sex. Penetrative sex. I’ve looked into it and it doesn’t really… appeal to me.”

Fidgety, anxious, and completely unable to remain seated, Draco stood up and bounced a little on his toes. “That makes no sense.” He put his hands on his hips. “That is _ridiculous_.” He tried not to scream when he spoke. “I want to have the kind of sex you should clearly have. I want you to fuck me!”

Harry stood up too, but he paced over to the other side of the room. “But when I asked to fuck your thighs you said no. I’m not going to do something you don’t want!”

“Fucking my thighs isn’t real fucking!” Draco exclaimed, beyond frustrated. He threw his arms out into the air of the stifling, candle-filled bedroom. How was Harry not getting this? “I take dildos up there all the time, Harry. I know I could take your cock so well!”

Harry stared at Draco, his mouth open in a tiny “oh.”

“I want to have _real_ sex, Harry,” Draco said, still too loud. “I want this thing between us to be _real_. When people are upset with me for, corrupting you, or whatever they are going to say, I want to at least know that this is, you know. Real. That I’m not letting you down. I’m not cheating you out of what you deserve in bed.”

“Isn’t that my decision, though? What I ‘deserve’ in bed?”

Draco stared at Harry. While that did… make sense, it hadn’t exactly occurred to him until Harry said it.

“How could you not want real sex?” he finally tried, not feeling quite… on target. This conversation was miles away from anywhere he had ever thought they would be.

“Because I don’t agree with you about what that means,” Harry said, sounding gentle. He took both of Draco’s hands in his own. Draco let Harry guide him back to the bed. They sat next to each other and now they were both looking at their feet. Draco pulled his hands away from Harry’s, regretting it immediately. He began to wring them, and then regretted that immediately, as well. He dumped them in his lap and tried to forget they existed.

“Sex is…” Harry hesitated. “It’s really personal,” he finally said. “When you and I have sex, Draco, I don’t want anyone else in the room with us.”

Draco felt his entire scalp start to heat, while his cheeks simultaneously felt like ice.

“With us,” Harry continued, sounding a little choked, “in any way. Not for real, but not in either of our minds, either. I don’t want you thinking about what you think other people are going to think I somehow mythically ‘deserve’ to get. I just want you to be thinking about you and me. Us. I want you to be thinking about _us_.”

Cautious, Harry took Draco’s limp hand, and Draco tried to process everything.

“You do not want me to bottom for you,” he finally said.

“No,” Harry said, “not really. Not right now. Maybe that will change someday. But right now I have no interest in anal.”

“You think we’ve been having sex all this time,” Draco said.

“Yes,” Harry said.

“You, you… you like it? What we’ve been doing? All this time.”

“So, so much,” Harry said fervently. He squeezed Draco’s hand.

“I, er, okay,” Draco finally said. “Uh, I mean, I am completely freaked out and surprised, but you make good, uh, points? About other people and about, uh, yourself? So, yeah. Okay.”

“Okay?” Harry said, and he sounded so hopeful that Draco kissed him.

He ended up on his hands and knees, Harry fucking the space between his balls and the very tops of his thighs. Harry’s cock kept rubbing against Draco’s cock, too. It felt amazing.

He woke in the morning in Harry’s arms.

He could still hardly believe this was his life.


	10. Ten

Adjusting to the real Harry was something Draco had never once thought to fantasize about. It was simultaneously heartrendingly amazing, and utterly bizarre. It felt like apparating somewhere new, with no map, where no one spoke any of the languages he knew.

Basically, Draco was remarkably uncomfortable, but he wanted — so much — to get used to this. To Harry. To being… Harry’s.

So.

Harry wanted to hold his hand in public. Draco liked it, so he was learning to let him.

Harry wanted to take him out to coffee shops. Draco was learning to just smile, say sure, and head to a coffee shop with Harry. (As long as it was Muggle, they were both fine. Even though Draco hated coffee. That was all right, because “coffee shops” apparently also sold good tea and some even had excellent hot cocoa, which would be relevant when it got colder. Harry was apparently quite certain the two of them would still be going out on dates when it got colder. Draco was significantly less certain, but no less hopeful.)

Harry wanted to take Draco out to dinner. Sometimes _three times a week_. Draco was learning not to always order the least expensive thing on the menu, but only because Harry was going to figure that out. (The second least expensive thing was also acceptable, Draco hoped. He wished he could afford to take Harry out to dinner, instead. He did so love going out to dinner.)

Harry wanted to take Draco out into the Muggle world a lot, as it happened. The first Muggle place they went was Draco’s local Aldi supermarket, because if there was anything Draco understood about the Muggle world, it was his grocery bill. Harry was impressed — and adorable — as Draco quickly and expertly picked out their dinner from the shelves, chatted with not one, but _two_ staffers (the one who found the kind of ground beef Draco preferred, and the one who rang them up), and paid proudly for the purchases with Muggle cash money. Then Draco took Harry home, cooked for him, watched with delight and wonder as Harry ate Draco’s spaghetti bolognese. Then Draco eagerly took Harry to bed to celebrate their successful shopping/cooking/eating venture. At Draco’s request, they sixty-nined again. Draco was _really_ enjoying this whole sixty-nining thing. Draco thought the whole evening felt like a huge success. Maybe even his huge success. Yes, there was a reason Draco had insisted on starting with the most familiar part of Muggle-dom.

Follow-on jaunts into the unfamiliar Muggle world were less… ideal. Now, Draco might have already learned the least expensive way to exchange galleons for pounds. (Whichever goblin looked least grumpy that morning, or — better still — find an elderly goblin training a younger one. Goblins never spoke out loud at a teller window about cheating a customer.) He might have learned how to navigate Aldi and a dry cleaner’s shop. He might have even spent a few weeks carefully determining that Aldi had better deals than Asda and Lidl. Draco had even learned the wonders of his local Muggle library. Librarians were _so_ patient.

But that didn’t mean Draco knew a damn thing about Muggle cinema, or Muggle swimming pools, or Muggle zoos. All of which Harry apparently longed to bring Draco to, and enjoy with him. And Draco was willing. Mostly. Nervous, but willing. They even had fun. But there wasn’t anywhere they went that Draco would have returned to alone. Even when he found it delightful at Harry’s side, the Muggle world was still a bit terrifying. Draco never knew when he was suddenly going to need something he didn’t have, like a special card to ride the Underground, or a completely different special card to pay for things without cash money, or a little device in his pocket to “ring” a place and find out when they opened and closed and how much it cost to get inside.

And then they went to the Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace, watching the changing of the Guard before they went in and took their tour. As a wizard, Draco had never thought much about the Muggle Royal family, but this turned out to have been an oversight. The opulence! The art! The fame, attention, wealth! So much wealth. Draco was giddy and unable to hide it, despite being able to see that Harry thought he was being _cute_. He was a grown man. He didn’t want his date to think he was fucking _cute_. But… the gold leaf! The windows in the ceilings! (Harry said they were called skylights. Skylights! As though sunlight and moonlight didn’t come from the sky!) Draco carefully noted all the details of the Gallery’s hours and entrances and prices, fully intending to return. (Possibly even via apparition, not that he planned to admit that to Harry.)

Harry did not enjoy anal sex. Draco understood that. He accepted it. And he was coming to enjoy the experimentation they were doing, and almost everything they did try. But Draco was still a man who had spent most of his youthful sexual energies on imagining getting solidly fucked, and he still didn’t understand how they were going to reconcile that. Luckily for him (and, to be frank, for Harry), he was having so much fun with all the things they _both_ wanted that he felt no pressure to hurry that conversation.

Harry wanted them to hang out with his friends. (Draco was horrified at first. He saw Weasley all the time at work, but this was different!) But things changed after he apologized to Weasley and Granger, because Granger awkwardly apologized right back for that slap. Of course Draco refused to accept her apology because “you know I deserved that one, straight out.” Well, after all of that, spending time with Harry’s friends wasn’t actually that difficult anymore.

Harry wanted them to hang out with _Draco’s_ friends. (Millicent and her boyfriend Bhek turned out to be willing, once. (And damn, was that lunch uncomfortable.) Everyone else though, was… hard to explain, but eventually Draco just sat Harry down, in private, and went through the entire list, painstakingly, person by person. After that Harry essentially stopped asking, and Draco was grateful.)

Harry wanted them to spend time with Draco’s Aunt Andromeda, and the orphan she was raising: Draco’s newest cousin, Harry’s little godson. They ate dinner there. They even tried watching Teddy together once, but Draco was so terrified of taking full responsibility for a baby (even temporarily) that Harry never suggested it again. Thank Merlin.

Harry wanted to take Draco away for a weekend. Harry wanted Draco to help him choose the location, the hotel, the itinerary. But Harry was going to pay for everything.

Harry wanted to officially meet Draco’s Mum.

Draco really needed to curl up in bed for an hour and just… he did not suck his thumb. That would be completely ridiculous. But this was getting overwhelming.

“Harry,” he tried. Harry looked up from the papers and brochures for all the little seaside escapes and delights.

“I can’t decide between Margate and Brighton, Draco. Why are you all the way over there? I need your help.”

“Harry,” Draco tried again. He wrung his hands, then forced them into his pockets. He was going to face this like an adult. “Does this relationship feel one-sided to you?”

“What?” Harry said, clearly a bit alarmed. “No! Not in the least!”

“I ask,” Draco said, and swallowed once, “because it is starting to feel very one-sided to me, and this, er, concerns me. As it were. I mean, yes. It concerns me.”

Harry patted the chair next to him at the table, then pushed the brochures aside. Draco sat down, turning to look at Harry, who looked unhappy. Draco patted his hand, and tried again.

“Remember how you couldn’t let me decide on our sex life for the both of us, it had to be mutual?”

Harry nodded, frowning. “That’s not how I would have put it,” he said slowly, “but I guess I see what you mean.”

“Well, it’s like that,” Draco said, feeling some of the tension release his shoulders. “It’s the money. It makes this feel… not mutual.”

“I don’t think I understand,” Harry said, but Draco thought he saw in the sadness in Harry’s eyes; Harry actually understood better than he liked.

“I need to contribute more to this relationship than my body and my conversational skills,” Draco said. “I’m not a paid dinner companion.”

“Of course not!” Harry almost exploded. “I don’t even know how you —”

Draco put one hand on Harry’s. Harry stilled and hushed.

“It isn’t that you think I am,” Draco tried. “But I’m starting to feel like that’s my role. Harry, you pay for _everything_. I know I haven’t much money, but I need to feel like an adult, here. Like a full partner.”

“You cooked me spaghetti bolognese,” Harry said, but his voice was soft.

“Yes,” Draco agreed. He squeezed Harry’s hand under his. “Once. Six weeks ago. I don’t make our decisions, Harry. I don’t buy the coffee or the dinner or the tickets to the movie film. And so neither do I choose the coffee place, or the restaurant, or the movie film we see.”

“I always ask you, Draco,” Harry said, and he sounded miserable. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“No, Harry. No. I don’t want that. Not at all.”

Draco saw Harry’s shoulders go down.

“Then, I don’t understand?”

“I don’t have much money, Harry, but I can still cook you dinner sometimes. I might not know much about the Muggle world, but I can still take you for a walk in the park. I don’t need to spend a lot of time alone on the weekends, but I do still have brewing experiments I want to work on by myself.”

“You want to plan our dates?” Harry’s eyes were shy, but he was smiling a little.

“Some of them,” Draco agreed.

“I’d love that,” Harry said.

“And Harry?”

“Yes?”

“I’m not ready for you to officially meet my mother.”


	11. Chapter 11

The Saturday that should have been London Pride found Harry and Draco in Soho Square, on a knitted rainbow blanket that Draco had paid Mrs Kishar to knit for him. (Well, he’d paid her to knit him one rainbow-striped placemat and then he’d magicked the thing much larger. Yarn was expensive, charms were not.) 

Draco was proud when he realized he had planned the whole day, for all of them. First he’d taken time a few days beforehand to scope out the neighborhood around the park for the best, most private apparition spots as well as choose a place for the blanket. He’d invited Harry, then Ron, Hermione, Millicent and Bhek (who had gently declined). Harry had suggested they invite Ginny and Luna (because apparently those two were now dating?) Draco had agreed and sent them an owl. Friday after work he’d gone shopping and then he had cooked for hours. Saturday morning he’d packed a huge picnic lunch to share with everyone. He’d borrowed the picnic basket from Mother. It was bottomless, and charmed to keep cool foods chilled. 

(Saturday night, as a special Pride celebration for just the two of them, Harry had agreed they could try something new in bed. But that wasn’t for anyone else to know about. Still, Draco kept remembering their plans at odd moments and smiling.)

The morning of the festivities, Draco had arrived extremely early to reserve the best space with his large blanket and his magical picnic basket. He was quite pleased to see he was just early enough to take the space he had chosen, for as he rolled out his large blanket and put his shoes in one corner and the basket in the opposite corner, other picnickers arrived and looked toward his area. 

He’d waited by himself for an entire hour and a half; watching Muggles arrive, greet each other, smile and laugh. He was relieved to realize he didn’t feel intimidated at all. A month or two ago, he’d have been nervous and overwhelmed to sit alone in a park filling with Muggles. Today, he felt like he was doing just fine. He wasn’t even bored. Mostly because he was considering the promising results he’d seemed to have with Prazosin and armadillo bile the weekend before, and writing down possible ways to continue testing that as a combination. 

There were one or two vendors with rainbow items, but Draco was able to wave them off without social awkwardness or discomfort. There were people with musical instruments, just sitting on their blankets and making quiet music. The closest one was pretty good with a guitar, and her girlfriend had a nice singing voice. There might not be a formal parade, but the streets were filled with same-sex couples, people wearing rainbows, people holding hands and enjoying the June sunshine. He was alone, but Draco was already glad he had come.

Draco fully expected Harry to be the next one of their group to arrive. He was, but when Hermione arrived with Ron, he was off buying the two of them Italian ices (lemon for Draco, probably banana flavour for Harry).

Draco pointed Ron toward Harry, waiting in line for their treats, and then Draco was alone with Hermione.

“Draco!” She said, as though she was glad to see him. Draco smiled at her, trying hard to look genuine. Mostly, though, it was real. _Time heals_ , Draco thought, pleased all over again.

“While they’re busy,” Hermione said, leaning in just a little, “I have to ask. Are you happy with Harry? I mean, I know Harry is happy. I’ve never seen him so happy.”

“Yes, I am happy,” Draco told her. He tipped his head in surprise. “But as long as Harry is happy, I have to wonder. Why do you care?”

Hermione looked at him very seriously, clearly thinking her answer through. Draco silently tapped his fingers in patterns on the knitted rainbow blanket, willing himself to be patient while she carefully formulated her answer. 

Finally, she spoke. “I care because I want Harry’s relationship to be real. If you aren’t happy, too, then it isn’t going to last. I want you to be happy, too, Draco, because I want Harry to have everything he wants and needs. Somehow, that’s you.”

“Oh,” Draco said, surprised. “I guess… that makes sense. Then, yes, Hermione, I am happy with Harry. Remarkably so.” He ducked his head and smiled at the blanket, embarrassed to show so much emotion in public. 

Hermione reached over and grabbed Draco’s hand, just long enough to squeeze it. “I’m glad,” Hermione said. Then she waved her hands wildly, getting Ron and Harry’s attention so they could find the two of them once again.

Grinning, Draco raised his hands to join her.

From across the park, a bright yellow Italian ice in each of his hands, Harry grinned at him.


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Da SEXX!  
> This is the chapter quite a few of you have been waiting for. Hope it meets with your approval. :-D

“So,” Harry said, grinning. “How do you want to do this?”

“Well,” Draco said, his head on Harry’s chest, his hand wrapped in Harry’s hand, “there’s two, no, well, three ways. Before I can take the toy, I need to stretch a little. Um. There. I can do it by hand, or you can, or we can use magic. What do you think?”

“Mm,” Harry said, and he kissed Draco’s temple. “Can I try stretching you myself, and maybe not finish if it isn’t, er, working?”

“Working? I know this works, Harry. I’ve done it before.”

“Working for me, I meant,” Harry said. Draco could hear the blush in his voice.

“Certainly,” Draco said. But he shivered eagerly at the thought of Harry’s fingers in him.

“Are you all right?” Harry said, clearly worried. “You were shaking just now!”

“Oh, Harry,” Draco said. He couldn’t help but laugh a little. “That was desire. I do that all the time with you!”

“I guess you’re not usually cuddled up next to me like this and talking when it happens. But, it’s good?” Harry pulled him in a little closer.

“It’s definitely good,” Draco said, and he moved to kiss his boyfriend, then moved away just enough to grab the lube from his bedside table. “Now, please put some of this on this finger, here.” He showed Harry what he wanted.

Harry seemed so unsure. “I’m worried I’m going to hurt you,” he admitted quietly as he took his lubricated finger out of the little glass jar.

“I really doubt you will,” Draco said, making sure they kept eye contact. “We checked your fingernails carefully, you washed your hands, and I know what I like. You know? Are you sure this isn’t about, er, you know….”

“The way arses can be kind of… unsavory?”

“If you think about them in a practical sort of way, yes,” Draco said. He felt his cheeks warm. This was not a sexy way to talk right before sex.

“No, I promise,” Harry said. He kissed Draco’s cheek, right at the hottest crest of his blush. “Magic means never having to worry about, er, messes.” He winked.

Draco giggled softly. He looked in Harry’s eyes, and petted Harry’s messy curls away from his forehead.

“I just, there was a time when I assumed that liking guys meant I had to be into anal,” Harry said. He eyes were unfocused now, like he was looking past Draco and through the blankets. “So I bought some lube and tried to like fingering myself.”

“But you didn’t?”

“I hurt myself,” Harry said quietly. He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I went too fast the first time. Got impatient, I guess. I didn’t want to give up, though, so I waited a week and a half, I think? And tried again. And that time I guess I hadn’t been nearly careful enough with my fingernails and—”

“Oh dear!” Draco exclaimed.

“So then I gave up on that and rented a bunch of Muggle porn, trying to figure out if I was really even into men at all?”

Draco nodded, fascinated.

“And, uh, yes. Yes. That answered that question for me. Really easily.”

Draco giggled again. Harry giggled a little, too. They smiled at each other, a little goofy. Draco hadn’t admitted it to Harry yet, but he was pretty sure he was in love. 

“But the other thing was, porn showed me all this other stuff two men could do. Stuff we’ve done now, mostly, and it was all, just, so much hotter? When I would get to the parts where one guy was fucking another guy, I’d just fast forward through it. That part wasn’t what got me hard and eager to come. So,” Harry shrugged, “that made it all pretty clear. I wanted a man, but I didn’t want in his arse, and I didn’t want him in mine, either. Not _cock_ in arse, anyway. I’m totally up for trying the fingering thing! I absolutely am!”

“You don’t need to convince me, Harry,” Draco said, trying to be soothing. He reached for Harry’s cock and gripped his erection tightly. Harry moaned helplessly and jerked his hips. “This is plenty convincing.” 

With Harry’s dick still firmly in his hand, Draco turned just enough to capture Harry’s lips with his own. They kissed for a long moment. 

“Put a finger inside me, Harry,” Draco whispered against Harry’s lips. “I want you inside me.”

“Oh, fuck,” Harry moaned. Then he obeyed. Draco tensed immediately. 

“Don’t stop,” Draco gritted out, electrified from the tip of one of Harry’s fingers. He knew the sudden bowstring of his neck and back might give the wrong impression. “Whatever you do, Harry, don’t you fucking dare stop. Oh fuck….”

“That good?” Harry asked. He sounded more confident already and Draco almost chastised him for teasing. Then Harry slid his finger in another couple of inches and Draco lost his train of thought. He melted back into the mattress and bent his legs more tightly.

“Yesssss,” Draco hissed. “Fuck me with it?”

He didn’t have to wait long this time. Harry adjusted his position in the bed to get a better angle, and he slid the finger in deep, then pulled it out and fucked it right back in again. 

“You feel good,” he whispered. “Hot, hell. Hot and soft and tight and…”

Draco clenched down around Harry’s finger and Harry’s eyebrows both rose high. “Whoah…,” Harry said, and then he smiled wickedly. “Want another finger?”

“Now,” Draco demanded. “Yes. At _least_ one.” 

Harry obeyed quickly. Draco felt his spine once again come right off the bed. Harry lost his place inside for a second, but he found it again quickly, and just… followed Draco as he writhed.

“I need more,” Draco whined. “So much more now.”

“Dildo?” Harry asked, and Draco thrashed at the thought. 

“Yes,” he agreed. “Right this fucking second.”

The green rubber dildo with the ridges that Draco had chosen was already near Harry’s hand, and Harry dipped it into the open lube jar and then pressed it to Draco’s hole. 

“Oh fuck,” Draco wailed, trying to be quiet.

“None of that,” Harry said. “We cast excellent silencing charms. I’ve never done this before, Sport. You have to react so I know what’s working for you.”

“Working!” Draco managed to cry. “Fuck me!”

Harry, Draco was realizing, could be remarkably obedient when ordered around. He shoved the rubber cock in, fast but smooth, and Draco felt the ridges stimulate his prostate, one after the other after the other. He nearly came. “Yes!” he wailed out, helpless, and reached for his cock. “I want to come!”

“Whoa!” Harry said. “Already?”

“Merlin fuck,” Draco howled. “I love this! I told you! Fuck me!” He straightened both legs and jerked at his erection until Harry pulled his hand off and replaced it with his own mouth. “Ahhhh!” Draco cried, and fucked into Harry’s hot mouth with small jerks of his hips while Harry fucked him with his dildo, his strokes long, smooth, and very, very deep. Harry's erection was a bar of heat against Draco's thigh. 

Draco couldn’t have held back his orgasm even if he had wanted to. They hadn’t been at this more than ten minutes. He hadn’t expected to come so damn fast! But he hardly ever masturbated anymore, because he and Harry were having so much sex. So it had been ages since he’d had this much prostate stimulation and… well. It seemed he had missed it. His release spilled, hot and thick into Harry's beautiful mouth.

Draco opened his eyes and looked blearily around. “Merlin’s balls,” he whispered. “That was really good. Give me a minute or two to catch my breath and I’ll return the favor, all right? Whatever you want.” He caught Harry’s eye and winked lasciviously. “You absolutely earned it.” He could tell that his smile was goofy, but he simply didn’t care.

“Er,” Harry was blushing furiously. “No need. Or, I mean, next time. You can owe me one.”

“Harry?” Draco wanted to get up on one elbow and look Harry more fully in the eye, but he couldn’t quite find the energy. In a minute, maybe. Then he looked toward Harry’s crotch. Harry was barely hard.

“I came while you were coming in my mouth,” Harry said before Draco could even worry about what Harry's soft cock meant. Harry looked embarrassed and pleased at once. “I love getting you off. I love feeling you come. That was so fucking hot, Draco. I just, er, rubbed against your thigh while I fucked you with the dildo.” Harry paused. “We are _so_ doing that again.”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Draco said. “Tomorrow?”

Harry laughed, kissed him, and grabbed his wand. “Probably,” he agreed, and started cleaning them up.

Draco was asleep before Harry finished casting.

 

Fin


End file.
